Weird Tales v21 n06 [1933-06]

WEIRD TALES

BLACK COLOSSUS

BY

ROBERT E. HOWARD
HUGH B. CA VE-CLARK ASHTON SMITH-

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MAGIC CARPET MAGAZINE

A MAGAZINE OF THE BIZARRE AND UNUSUAL

| Volume 21

CONTENTS FOR JUNE, 1933

Number 6 j

Cover Design__

- M. Brundage

Illustrating a scene in "Black Colossus"

Black Colossus_Robert E. Howard 675

A mighty story of a barbarian mercenary who saved a nation from shuddery evil

Golden Blood (part 3)_Jack Williamson 700

A powerful novel of weird adventures in the hidden golden land of Arabia

The Iron Man_Paul Ernst 719

A powerful weird-scientific story of a robot that ran amuck in the city streets

The Crawling Curse_Hugh B. Cave 733

A tale of the East Indies, and the ghastly retribution that drove a murderer to his doom

Genius Loci_Clark Ashton Smith 747

The story of a deathly horror that lurked in the scummy pool where old Chapman was found

The Dwellers in the House-Sophie Wenzel Ellis 759

A sensational tale of an evil Arab who changed bodies at will to perpetuate himself through
the ages

A Sprig of Rosemary-H. Warner Munn 773

A tender story about a skinflint whose stony heart was softened after his death

The Last Drive-Carl Jacobi 778

A brief story of a grisly ride through a blizzard with a corpse

Nellie Foster_August W. Derleth 782

A ten-minute tale about a woman who would not stay quiet in her grave

The Eyrie_ 786

A chat with the readers

Weird Story Reprint:

The Floor Above_M. L. Humphreys 789

One of the most popular stories from WEIRD TALES often years ago

674

Z3lack

Colossus

By ROBERT E HOWARD

"Conan sprang dear as
the horie fell, and with
a roar Kulamun was

A mighty story of the wizard Natohk, and red battle,
and stupendous deeds—a tale of a barbarian
mercenary who was called upon to Save
a nation from shuddery evil

"The Night of Power, when Fate stalked through
the corridors of the world like a colossus just risen
ftom aft age-old throne of granite——”

E. Hoffmann Price: The Girl From Scmarcand.

O NLY the age-old silence brooded
over the mysterious ruins of Kuth-
chemes, but Fear was there; Fear
quivered in the mind of Shevatas, the
thief, driving his breath quick and sharp
against his clenched teeth.

He stood, the one atom of life amidst
the colossal monuments of desolation and

decay. Not even a vulture hung like a
black dot in the vast blue vault of the sky
that the sun glazed with its heat.’On every
hand rose the grim relics of another, for¬
gotten age: huge broken pillars, thrust¬
ing up their jagged pinnacles into the sky;
long wavering lines of crumbling walls;
fallen cyclopean blocks of stone; shat¬
tered images, whose horrific features the
corroding winds and dust-storms had half
erased. From horizon to horizon no sign

675

WEIRD TALES

676

of life: only the sheer breath-taking sweep
of the naked desert, bisected by the wan¬
dering line of a long-dry river-course; in
the midst of that vastness the glimmering
fangs of the ruins, the columns standing
up like broken masts of sunken ships—
all dominated by the towering ivory dome
before which Shevatas stood trembling.

The base of this dome was a gigantic
pedestal of marble rising from what had
once been a terraced eminence on the
banks of the ancient river. Broad steps led
up to a great bronze door in the dome,
which rested on its base like the half of
some titanic egg. The dome itself was of
pure ivory, which shone as if unknown
hands kept it polished. Likewise shone
the spired gold cap of the pinnacle, and
the inscription which sprawled about the
curve of the dome in golden hieroglyphics
yards long. No man on earth could read
those characters, but Shevatas shuddered
at the dim conjectures they raised. For he
came of a very old race, whose myths ran
back to shapes undreamed of bv contem¬
porary tribes.

Shevatas was wiry and lithe, as became
a master-thief of Zamora. His small
round head was shaven, his only garment
a loin-cloth of scarlet silk. Like all his
race, he was very dark, his narrow vulture¬
like face set off by his keen black eyes.
His long, slender and tapering fingers
were quick and nervous as the wings of
a moth. From a gold-scaled girdle hung
a short, narrow, jewel-hilted sword in a
sheath of ornamented leather. Shevatas
handled the weapon with apparently ex¬
aggerated care. He even seemed to flinch
away from the contact of the sheath with
his naked thigh. Nor was his care with¬
out reason.

This was Shevatas, a thief among
thieves, whose name was spoken with awe
in the dives of the Maul and the dim
shadowy recesses beneath the temples of

Bel, and who lived in songs and myths for
a thousand years. Yet fear ate at the
heart of Shevatas as he stood before the
ivory dome of Kuthchemes. Any fool could
see there was something unnatural about
the structure; the winds and suns of three
thousand years had lashed it, yet its gold
and ivory rose bright and glistening as the
day it was reared by nameless hands on
the bank of the nameless river.

This unnaturalness was in keeping with
the general aura of these devil-haunted
ruins. This desert was the mysterious ex¬
panse lying southeast of the lands of
Shem. A few days’ ride on camel-back to
the southwest, as Shevatas knew, would
bring the traveller within sight of the
great river Styx at the point where it
turned at right angles with its former
course, and flowed westward to empty at
last into the distant sea. At the point of
its bend began the land of Stygia, the
dark-bosomed mistress of the south, whose
domains, watered by the great river, rose
sheer out of the surrounding desert.

Eastward, Shevatas knew, the desert
shaded into steppes stretching to the
Hyrcanian kingdom of Turan, rising in
barbaric splendor on the shores of the
great inland sea. A week’s ride north¬
ward the desert ran into a tangle of barren
hills, beyond which lay the fertile uplands
of Koth, the southernmost realm of the
Hyborian races. Westward the desert
merged into the meadowlands of Shem,
which stretched away to the ocean.

All this Shevatas knew without being
particularly conscious of the knowledge,
as a man knows the streets of his town.
He was a far traveller and had looted the
treasures of many kingdoms. But now he
hesitated and shuddered before the high¬
est adventure and the mightiest treasure
of all.

In that ivory dome lay the bones of
Thugra Khotan, the dark sorcerer who

BLACK COLOSSUS

677

had reigned in Kuthchemes three thou¬
sand years ago, when the kingdoms of
Stygia stretched far northward of the great
river, over the meadows of Shem, and into
the uplands. Then the great drift of the
Hyborians swept southward from the
cradle-land of their race near the north¬
ern pole. It was a titanic drift, extending
over centuries and ages. But in the reign
of Thugra Khotan, the last magician of
Kuthchemes, gray-eyed, tawny-haired bar¬
barians in wolfskins and scale-mail had
ridden from the north into the rich up¬
lands to carve out the kingdom of Koth
with their iron swords. They had stormed
over Kuthchemes like a tidal wave, wash¬
ing the marble towers in blood, and the
northern Stygian kingdom had gone down
in fire and ruin.

But while they were shattering the
streets of his city and cutting down his
archers like ripe corn, Thugra Khotan had
swallowed a strange terrible poison, and
his masked priests had locked him into
the tomb he himself had prepared. His
devotees died about that tomb in a crim¬
son holocaust, but the barbarians could not
burst the door, nor even mar the structure
by maul or fire. So they rode away, leav¬
ing the great city in ruins, and in his ivory-
domed sepulcher great Thugra Khotan
slept unmolested, while the lizards of
desolation gnawed at the crumbling pil¬
lars, and the very river that watered his
land in old times sank into the sands and
ran dry.

Many a thief sought to gain the treas¬
ure which fables said lay heaped about the
moldering bones inside the dome. And
many a thief died at the door of the tomb,
and many another was harried by mon¬
strous dreams to die at last with the froth
of madness on his lips.

So Shevatas shuddered as he faced the
tomb, nor was his shudder altogether oc¬
casioned by the legend of the serpent said

to guard the sorcerer’s bones. Over all
myths of Thugra Khotan hung horror and
death like a pall. From where the thief
stood he could see the ruins of the great
hall wherein chained captives had knelt
by the hundreds during festivals to have
their heads hacked off by the priest-king
in honor of Set, the Serpent-god of Stygia.
Somewhere near by had been the pit, dark
and awful, wherein screaming victims
were fed to a nameless amorphic mon¬
strosity which came up out of a deeper,
more hellish cavern. Legend made Thugra
Khotan more than human; his worship
yet lingered in a mongrel degraded cult,
whose votaries stamped his likeness on
coins to pay the way of their dead over the
great river of darkness of which the Styx
was but the material shadow. Shevatas
had seen this likeness, on coins stolen
from under the tongues of the dead, and
its image was etched indelibly in his brain.

But he put aside his fears and mounted
to the bronze door, whose smooth surface
offered no bolt or catch. Not for naught
had he gained access into darksome cults,
had harkened to the grisly whispers of the
votaries of Skelos under midnight trees,
and read the forbidden iron-bound books
of Vathelos the Blind.

K neeling before the portal, he searched
-the sill with nimble fingers; their
sensitive tips found projections too small
for the eye to detect, or for less-skilled
fingers to discover. These he pressed care¬
fully and according to a peculiar system,
muttering a long-forgotten incantation as
he did so. As he pressed the last projec¬
tion, he sprang up with frantic haste and
struck the exact center of the door a quick
sharp blow with his open hand.

There was no rasp of spring or hinge,
but the door retreated inward, and the
breath hissed explosively from Shevatas’
clenched teeth. A short narrow corridor

WEIRD TALES

6 * 1 *

was disclosed. Down this the door had
slid, arid was ridW ih place at the othef
erid. The floor, ceiling arid sides Of the
ttiiiftd-like aperture were of ivory, and
now from an opening Ott one side came a
silent writhing horror that reared up and
glared on the intruder with awful lumi¬
nous eyes; a serpent twenty feet long, with
shimmering, iridescent scales.

The thief did not waste time in conjec¬
turing what night-black pits lying beloW
the dome had given sustenance to the
monster. Gingerly he drew the sword,
ahd from it dripped a greenish liquid
exactly like that which slavered from the
simitar-farigS of the reptile. The blade
was steeped in the poison of the shake’s
own kind, arid the obtaining of that
venom from the fiend-haunted swamps of
Zingara Would have made a saga in itself.

Shevatas advanced warily on the balls
of his feet, knees bent slightly, ready to
sprihg either way like a flash of light.
Arid he needed all his co-ordinate speed
when the shake arched its rieck and
struck, shooting out its full length like a
stroke of lightning. For all his quickness
of nerve and eye, Shevatas had died then
but for chance. His well-laid plans of
leaping aside and striking down on the
outstretched neck were put at naught by
the blinding speed of the reptile’s attack.
The thief had but time to extend the
sword in front of him, involuntarily clos¬
ing his eyes and crying out. Then the
sword was wrenched from his hand arid
the corridor was filled with a horrible
thrashing and lashing.

Opening his eyes, amazed to find him¬
self still alive, Shevatas saw the monster
heaving and twisting its slimy form in
fantastic contortions, the sword transfix¬
ing its giant jaws. Sheer chance had
hurled it full against the point he had held
oUt blindly. A few moments later the
serpent sank into shining, scarcely quiver¬

ing coils, as the poison on the blade struck
home.

Gingerly stepping over it, the thief
thrust against the doOr, which this time
slid aside, revealing the interior of the
doffie. Shevatas cried out; instead of
utter darkness he had come into a crimson
light that throbbed ahd pulsed almost
beyond the endurance of mortal eyes. It
came from a gigantic red jewel high up in
the vaulted arch of the dome. Shevatas
gaped, inured though he was to the sight
of riches. The treasure was there, heaped
in staggering profusion—piles of di¬
amonds, sapphires, rubies, turquoises,
opals, emeralds; zikkurats of jade, jet and
lapis-lazuli; pyramids of gold wedges;
teocallis of silver ingots; jewel-hilted
swords in cloth-of-gold sheaths; golden
helmets with colored horsehair crests, or
black and scarlet plumes; silver-scaled
corselets; gem-crusted harness worn by
warrior-kings three thousand years in
their tombs; goblets carven of single
jewels; skulls plated with gold, With
moonstones for eyes; necklaces of human
teeth set with jewels. The ivory floor was
covered inches deep with gold dust that
sparkled arid shimmered under the crim¬
son glow with a million sciritillant lights.
The thief stood in a wonderland of magic
and splendor, treading stars under his
sandalled feet.

But his eyes were focussed on the dais
of crystal which rose ih the midst of the
shimmering array, directly under the red
jewel, and on which should be lying the
moldering bones, turning to dust with the
crawling of the centuries. And as Sheva¬
tas looked, the blood drained from his
dark features; his marrow turned to ice,
and the skin of his back crawled and
wrinkled with horror, while his lips
worked soundlessly. But suddenly he
found his Voice in one awful scream that
rang hideously under the arching dome.

BLACK COLOSSUS

679

Then again the silence of the ages lay
among the ruins of mysterious Kuth-
chemes.

2

R umors drifted up through the mead-
- owlands, into the cities of the Hy-
borians. The word ran along the caravans,
the long camel-trains plodding through
the sands, herded by lean hawk-eyed men
in white kaftans. It was passed on by the
hook-nosed herdsmen of the grasslands,
from the dwellers in tents to the dwellers
in the squat stone cities where kings with
curled blue-black beards worshipped
round-bellied gods with curious rites. The
word passed up through the fringe of
hills where gaunt tribesmen took toll of
the caravans. The rumors came into the
fertile uplands where stately cities rose
above blue lakes and rivers: the rumors
marched along the broad white roads
thronged with ox-wains, with lowing
herds, with rich merchants, knights in
steel, archers and priests.

They were rumors from the desert that
lies east of Stygia, far south of the Kothian
hills. A new prophet had risen among the
nomads. Men spoke of tribal war, of a
gathering of vultures in the southeast, and
a terrible leader who led his swiftly in¬
creasing hordes to victory. The Stygians,
ever a menace to the northern nations,
were apparently not connected with this
movement; for they were massing armies
on their eastern borders and their priests
were making magic to fight that of the
desert sorcerer, whom men called Natohk,
the Veiled One; for his features were
always masked.

But the tide swept northwestward, and
the blue-bearded kings died before the
altars of their pot-bellied gods, and their
squat-walled cities were drenched in
blood. Men said that the uplands of the

Hyborians were the goal of Natohk and
his chanting votaries.

Raids from the desert were not uncom¬
mon, but this latest movement seemed to
promise more than a raid. Rumor said
Natohk had welded thirty nomadic tribes
and fifteen cities into his following, and
that a rebellious Stygian prince had joined
him. This latter lent the affair an aspect
of real war.

Characteristically most of the Hyborian
nations were prone to ignore the growing
menace. But in Khoraja, carved out of
Shemite lands by the swords of Kothic ad¬
venturers, heed was given. Lying south¬
east of Koth, it would bear the brunt of
the invasion. And its young king was
captive to the treacherous king of Ophir,
who hesitated between restoring him for
a huge ransom, or handing him over to
his enemy, the penurious king of Koth,
who offered no gold, but an advantageous
treaty. Meanwhile, the rule of the strug¬
gling kingdom was in the white hands of
young princess Yasmela, the king’s sister.

Minstrels sang her beauty throughout
the western world, and the pride of a
kingly dynasty was hers. But on that
night her pride was dropped from her
like a cloak. In her chamber whose ceil¬
ing was a lapis lazuli dome, whose mar¬
ble floor was littered with rare furs, and
whose walls were lavish with golden
frieze-work, ten girls, daughters of nobles,
their slender limbs weighted with gem-
crusted armlets and anklets, slumbered
on velvet couches about the royal bed with
its golden dais and silken canopy. But
princess Yasmela lolled not on that silken
bed. She lay naked on her supple belly
upon the bare marble like the most abased
suppliant, her dark hair streaming over
her white shoulders, her slender fingers
intertwined. She lay and writhed in pure
horror that froze the blood in her lithe
limbs and dilated her beautiful eyes, that

WEIRD TALES

pricked the roots of het dark hair and
made goose-flesh rise along her supple
spine.

Above her, in the darkest corner Of the
marble chamber, lurked a vast shapeless
shadow. It was no living thing of
form or flesh and blood. It was a clot of
darkness, a blur in the sight, a monstrous
night-born incubus that might have been
deemed a figment of a sleep-drugged
brain, but for the points of blaming yel¬
low fire that glimmered like two eyes
from the blackness.

Moreover a voice issued from it—a low
subtle inhuman sibilartce that was more
like the soft abominable hissing of a ser¬
pent than anything else, and that appar¬
ently could nbt emanate from anything
With human lips. Its sound as well as its
import filled Yasmela With a shuddering
horror so intolerable that she writhed and
twisted her slender body as if beneath a
lash, as though to rid her mind of its in¬
sinuating vileness by physical contortion.

"You ate marked for mine, princess,”
came the gloating whisper. "Before I
wakened from the long sleep I had
marked you, and yearned for you, but I
was held fast by the ancient spell by
which I escaped mine enemies. I am the
soul of Natohk, the Veiled One! Look
well upon me, princess! Soon you shall
behold me in my bodily guise, and shall
love me!”

The ghostly hissing dwindled off in
lustful titterings, and Yasmela moaned
and beat the marble tiles with her small
fists in her ecstasy of terror.

"I sleep in the palace chamber of
Akbatana,” the sibilances continued.
"There my body lies in its frame of bones
and flesh. But it is but an empty shell
from which the spirit has flown for a brief
space. Could you gaze from that palace
casement you would realize the futility of
resistance. The desert is a rose-garden

beneath the moon, where blossom the fires
of a hundred thousand warriors. As an
avalanche sweeps onward, gathering bulk
and momentum, I will sweep into the
lands of mine ancient enemies. Their
kings shall furnish me skulls for goblets,
theit women and children shall be slaves
of my slaves’ slaves. 1 have grown strong
in the long years of dreaming. . . .

"But thou shalt be my queen, oh prin¬
cess! I will teach thee the ancient forgot¬
ten ways of pleasure. We-” Before

the stream of cosmic obscenity which
poured from the shadowy colossus, Yas¬
mela cringed and writhed as if from a
whip that flayed her dainty bare flesh.

"Remember!” whispered the horror.
"The days will not be many before I
come to claim mine own!”

Yasmela, pressing her face against the
tiles and stopping her pink ears with her
dainty fingers, yet seemed to hear a strange
sweeping noise, like the beat Of bat-
wings. Then, looking fearfully up; she
saw only the moon that shone through the
window with a beam that rested like a
silver sword across the spot where the
phantom had lurked. Trembling in every
limb, she rose and staggered to a satin
couch, where she threw herself down,
weeping hysterically. The girls slept on,
but one, who roused, yawned, stretched
her slender figure and blinked about. In¬
stantly she was on her knees beside the
couch, her arms about Yasmela’s supple
waist.

"Was it—was it-?” her dark eyes

were wide with fright. Yasmela caught
her in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh, Vateesa, It came again! I saw It
—heard It speak! It spoke Its name—
Natohk! It is Natohk! It is not a night¬
mare—it towered over me while the girls
slept like drugged ones. What—oh, what
shall I do?”

BLACK COLOSSUS

681

Vatcesa twisted a golden bracelet about
her rounded arm, in meditation.

"Oh, princess,” she said, "it is evident
that no mortal power can deal with It,
and the charm is useless that the priests
of Ishtar gave you. Therefore seek you
the forgotten oracle of Mitra.”

I N spite of her recent fright, Yasmela
Shuddered. The gods of yesterday
become the devils of tomorrow. The
Kothians had long since abandoned the
worship of Mitra, forgetting the attributes
of the universal Hyborian god. Yasmela
had a vague idea that, being very ancient,
it followed that the deity was very ter¬
rible. Ishtar was much to be feared, and
all the gods of Koth. Kothian culture and
religion had suffered from a subtle ad¬
mixture of Shemite and Stygian strains.
The simple ways of the Hyborians had
become modified to a large extent by the
sensual, luxurious, yet despotic habits of
the East.

"Will Mitra aid me?” Yasmela caught
Vateesa’s wrist in her eagerness. "We

have worshipped Ishtar so long-”

"To be sure he will!” Vateesa Was the
daughter of an Ophirean priest who had
brought his customs with him when he
fled from political enemies to Khotaja.
"Seek the shrine! I will go with you.”

"I will!” Yasmela rose, but objected
when Vateesa prepared to dress het. "It
is not fitting that I come before the shrine
clad in silk. I will go naked, on my knees,
as befits a suppliant, lest Mitra deem I
lack humility.”

"Nonsense!” Vateesa had scant respect
for the ways of what she deenled a false
cult. "Mitra would have folks stand Up¬
right before him—not crawling on their
bellies like worms, or spilling blood of
animals all over his altats.”

Thus objurgated, Yasmela allowed the
girl to garb her in the light sleeveless silk

shift, over which w4s slipped a silken
tunic, bornld at the waist by a wide vel¬
vet girdle. Satin slippers were put upon
her slender feet, and a few deft touches
of Vateesa’s pink fingers arranged her
dark wavy tresses. Then the princess fol¬
lowed the girl, who drew aside a heavy
gilt-worked tapestry and threw the goldert
bolt of the door it concealed. This let
into a narrow winding corridor, and down
this the two girls went swiftly, through
another door and into a broad hallway.
Here stood a guardsman in crested gilt
helmet, silvered cuirass and gold-chased
greaves, with a long-shafted battle-ax in
his hands.

A motion from Yasmela checked his
exclamation, and saluting, he took his
stand again beside the doorway, motion¬
less as a brazen image. The girls traversed
the hallway, which seemed immense and
eery in the light of the cressets along the
lofty walls, and went down a stairway
where Yasmela shivered at the blots of
shadows which hung in the angles of the
walls. Three levels down they halted at
last in a narrow corridor whose arched
ceiling was crusted with jewels, whose
floor was set with blocks of crystal, and
whose walls were decorated with golden
frieze-work. Down this shining way they
stole, holding each other’s hands, to a
wide portal of gilt.

Vateesa thrust open the door, revealing
a shrine long forgotten except by a faith¬
ful few, and royal visitors to Khoraja’s
court, mainly for whose benefit the fane
was maintained. Yasrtiela had never
entered it before, though she was born in
the palace. Plain and unadorned in com¬
parison to the lavish display of Ishtar’s
shrines, there was about it a simplicity of
dignity and beauty characteristic of the
Mitran religion.

The ceiling was lofty, but it was not
domed, and was of plain white marble, as

682

WEIRD TALES

were the walls and floor, the former with
a narrow gold frieze running about them.
Behind an altar of clear green jade, un¬
stained with sacrifice, stood the pedestal
whereon sat the material manifestation of
the deity. Yasmela looked in awe at the
sweep of the magnificent shoulders, the
clear-cut features—the wide straight eyes,
the patriarchal beard, the thick curls of
the hair, confined by a simple band about
the temples. This, though she did not
know it, was art in its highest form—the
free, uncramped artistic expression of a
highly esthetic race, unhampered by con¬
ventional symbolism.

S he fell on her knees and thence pros¬
trate, regardless of Vateesa’s admoni¬
tion, and Vateesa, to be on the safe side,
followed her example; for after all, she
was only a girl, and it was very awesome
in Mitra’s shrine. But even so she could
not refrain from whispering in Yasmela’s
ear.

"This is but the emblem of the god.
None pretends to know what Mitra looks
like. This but represents him in idealized
human form, as near perfection as the
human mind can conceive. He does not
inhabit this cold stone, as your priests tell
you Ishtar does. He is everywhere—above
us, and about us, and he dreams betimes
in the high places among the stars. But
here his being focusses. Therefore call
upon him.”

"What shall I say?” whispered Yas¬
mela in stammering terror.

"Before you can speak, Mitra knows

the contents of your mind-” began

Vateesa. Then both girls started violently
as a voice began in the air above them.
The deep, calm, bell-like tones emanated
no more from the image than from any¬
where else in the chamber. Again Yas¬
mela trembled before a bodiless voice

speaking to her, but this time it was not
from horror or repulsion.

"Speak not, my daughter, for I know
your need,” came the intonations like
deep musical waves beating rhythmically
along a golden beach. "In one manner
may you save your kingdom, and saving
it, save all the world from the fangs of the
serpent which has crawled up out of the
darkness of the ages. Go forth upon the
streets alone, and place your kingdom in
the hands of the first man you meet
there.”

The unechoing tones ceased, and the
girls stared at each other. Then, rising,
they stole forth, nor did they speak until
they stood once more in Yasmela’s cham¬
ber. The princess stared out of the gold-
barred windows. The moon had set. It
was long past midnight. Sounds of revel¬
ry had died away in the gardens and on
the roofs of the city. Khoraja slumbered
beneath the stars, which seemed to be re¬
flected in the cressets that twinkled among
the gardens and along the streets and on
the flat roofs of houses where folk slept.

"What will you do?” whispered Va¬
teesa, all a-tremble.

"Give me my cloak,” answered Yas¬
mela, setting her teeth.

"But alone, in the streets, at this hour!”
expostulated Vateesa.

"Mitra has spoken,” replied the prin¬
cess. "It might have been the voice of the
god, or a trick of a priest. No matter. I
will go!”

Wrapping a voluminous silken cloak
about her lithe figure and donning a vel¬
vet cap from which depended a filmy veil,
she passed hurriedly through the corridors
and approached a bronze door where a
dozen spearmen gaped at her as she passed
through. This was in a wing of the
palace which let directly onto the street;
on all other sides it was surrounded by
broad gardens, bordered by a high wall.

black colossus

683

She emerged into the street, lighted by
cressets plated at regular intervals.

She hesitated; then, before her resolu¬
tion could falter, she closed the door
behind her. A slight shudder shook her
as she glanted up and down the street,
which lay silent and bare. This daughter
of aristocrats had never before ventured
unattended outside her ancestral palace.
Then, steeling herself, she went swiftly
up the street. Her satin-slippered feet fell
lightly on the pave, but their soft sound
brought her heart into her throat. She
imagined their fall echoing thunderously
through the cavernous city, rousing ragged
rat-eyed figures in hidden lairs among the
sewers. Every shadow seemed to hide a
lurking assassin, every blank doorway to
mask the slinking hounds of darkness.

Then she started violently. Ahead of
her a figure appeared on the eery street.
She drew quickly into a clump of shad¬
ows, which now seemed like a haven of
refuge, her pulse pounding. The ap¬
proaching figure went not furtively, like
a thief, or timidly, like a fearful traveller.
He strode down the nighted street as one
who has no need or desire to walk softly.
An unconscious swagger was in his stride,
and his footfalls resounded on the pave.
As he passed near a cresset she saw him
plainly—a tall man, in the chain-mail
hauberk of a mercenary. She braced her¬
self, then darted from the shadow, hold¬
ing her cloak close about her.

"Sa-ha!” his sword flashed half out of
his sheath. It halted when he saw it was
only a woman that stood before him, but
his quick glance went over her head, seek¬
ing the shadows for possible confederates.

He stood facing her, his hand on the
long hilt that jutted forward from beneath
the scarlet Cloak which flowed carelessly
from his mailed shoulders. The torch¬
light glinted dully on the polished blue
steel of his greaves and basinet. A more

baleful fire glittered bluely in his eyes.
At first glance she saw he was no Koth-
ian; when he spoke she knew he was no
Hyborian. He was clad like a captain of
the mercenaries, and in that desperate
command there were men of many lands,
barbarians as well as civilized foreigners.
There Was a wolfishrtess about this war¬
rior that marked the barbarian. The eyes
of no civilized man, however wild or
criminal, ever blazed with such a fire.
Wine scented his breath, but he neither
staggered nor stammered.

"Have they shut you into the street?”
he asked in barbarous Kothic, reaching
for her. His fingers closed lightly about
her rounded wrist, but she felt that he
could splinter its bones without effort.
"I’ve but come from the last wine-shop
open—Ishtar’s curse on these white
livered reformers who close the grog-
houses! 'Let men sleep rather than guz¬
zle,’ they say—aye, so they can work and
fight better for their masters! Soft-gutted
eunuchs, I call them. When I served with
the mercenaries of Corinthia we swilled
and wenched all night and fought all day
—aye, blood ran down the channels of
our swords. But what of you, my girl?
Take off that cursed mask-”

She avoided his clutch with a lithe twist
of her body, trying not to appear to re¬
pulse him. She realized her danger, alone
with a drunken barbarian. If she revealed
her identity, he might laugh at her, or
take himself off. She was not sure he
would not cut her throat. Barbaric men
did strange inexplicable things. She
fought a rising fear.

"Not here,” she laughed. "Come with
me-”

"Where?” His wild blood was up, but
he was wary as a wolf. "Are you taking
me to some den of robbers?”

"No, no, I swear it!” She was hard put

WEIRD TALES

to avoid the hand which was again fum¬
bling at her veil.

"Devil bite you, hussy!” he growled
disgustedly. "You’re as bad as a Hyrca-
nian woman, with your damnable veil.
Here—let me look at your figure, any¬
way!”

Before she could prevent it, he
wrenched the cloak from her, and she
heard his breath hiss between his teeth.
He stood holding the cloak, eyeing her as
if the sight of her rich garments had
somewhat sobered him. She saw suspicion
flicker sullenly in his eyes.

"Who the devil are you?” he muttered.
"You’re no street-waif — unless your
leman robbed the king’s seraglio for your
clothes.”

"Never mind.” She dared to lay her
white hand on his massive iron-clad arm.
“Come with me off the street.”

H e hesitated, then shrugged his
mighty shoulders. She saw that he
half believed her to be some noble lady,
who, weary of polite lovers, was taking
this means of amusing herself. He
allowed her to don the cloak again, and
followed her. From the corner of her eye
she watched him as they went down the
street together. His mail could not
conceal his hard lines of tigerish strength.
Everything about him was tigerish, ele¬
mental, untamed. He was alien as the
jungle to her in his difference from the
debonair courtiers to whom she was ac¬
customed. She feared him, told herself
she loathed his raw brute strength and un¬
ashamed barbarism; yet something breath¬
less and perilous inside her leaned toward
him; the hidden primitive chord that
lurks in every woman’s soul was sounded
and responded. She had felt his hardened
hand on her arm, and something deep in
her tingled to the memory of that contact.
Many men had knelt before Yasmela.

Here was one she felt had never knelt
before any one. Her sensations were those
of one leading an unchained tiger; she
was frightened, and fascinated by her
fright.

She halted at the palace door and thrust
lightly against it. Furtively watching her
companion, she saw no suspicion in his
eyes.

"Palace, eh?” he rumbled. "So you’re
a maid-in-waiting?”

She found herself wondering, with a
strange jealousy, if any of her maids had
ever led this war-eagle into her palace.
The guards made no sign as she led him
between them, but he eyed them as a fierce
dog might eye a strange pack. She led
him through a curtained doorway into an
inner chamber, where he stood, naively
scanning the tapestries, until he saw a
crystal jar of wine on an ebony table. This
he took up with a gratified sigh, tilting it
toward his lips. Vateesa ran from an in¬
ner room, crying breathlessly, "Oh, my
princess-”

"Princess!"

The wine-jar crashed to the floor. With
a motion too quick for sight to follow,
the mercenary snatched off Yasmela’s veil,
glaring. He recoiled with a curse, his
sword leaping into his hand with a broad
shimmer of blue steel. His eyes blazed
like a trapped tiger’s. The air was super¬
charged with tension that was like the
pause before the bursting of a storm.
Vateesa sank to the floor, speechless with
terror, but Yasmela faced the infuriated
barbarian without flinching. She realized
her very life hung in the balance: mad¬
dened with suspicion and unreasoning
panic, he was ready to deal death at the
slightest provocation. But she experienced
a certain breathless exhilaration in the
crisis.

"Do not be afraid,” she said. "I am

BLACK COLOSSUS

685

Yasmela, but there is no reason to fear
me."

"Why did you lead me here?” he
snarled, his blazing eyes darting all about
the chamber. "What manner of trap is
this?”

"There is no trickery,” she answered.
"I brought you here because you can aid
me. I called on the gods—on Mitra—and
he bade me go into the streets and ask
aid of the first man I met.”

This was something he could under¬
stand. The barbarians had their oracles.
He lowered his sword, though he did not
sheathe it.

"Well, if you’re Yasmela, you need
aid,” he grunted. "Your kingdom’s in a
devil of a mess. But how can I aid you?
If you want a throat cut, of course-”

"Sit down,” she requested. "Vateesa,
bring him wine.”

He complied, taking care, she noticed,
to sit with his back against a solid wall,
where he could watch the whole chamber.
He laid his naked sword across his mail-
sheathed knees. She glanced at it in fas¬
cination. Its dull blue glimmer seemed to
reflect tales of bloodshed and rapine; she
doubted her ability to lift it, yet she knew
that the mercenary could wield it with one
hand as lightly as she could wield a rid¬
ing-whip. She noted the breadth and
power of his hands; they were not the
stubby undeveloped paws of a troglodyte.
With a guilty start she found herself
imagining those strong fingers locked in
her dark hair.

He seemed reassured when she de¬
posited herself on a satin divan opposite
him. He lifted off his basinet and laid it
on the table, and drew back his coif, let¬
ting the mail folds fall upon his massive
shoulders. She saw more fully now his
unlikeness to the Hyborian races. In his
dark, scarred face there was a suggestion
of moodiness; and without being marked

by depravity, or definitely evil, there was
more than a suggestion of the sinister
about his features, set off by his smolder¬
ing blue eyes. A low broad forehead was
topped by a square-cut tousled mane as
black as a raven’s wing.

"Who are you?” she asked abruptly.

"Conan, a captain of the mercenary
spearmen,” he answered, emptying the
wine-cup at a gulp and holding it out for
more. "I was bom in Cimmeria.”

The name meant little to her. She
only knew vaguely that it was a wild grim
hill-country which lay far to the north,
beyond the last outposts of the Hyborian
nations, and was peopled by a fierce
moody race. She had never before seen
one of them.

R esting her chin on her hands, she
- gazed at him with the deep dark eyes
that had enslaved many a heart.

"Conan of Cimmeria,” she said, "you
said I needed aid. Why?”

"Well,” he answered, "any man can
see that. Here is the king your brother in
an Ophirean prison; here is Koth plotting
to enslave you; here is this sorcerer scream¬
ing hell-fire and destruction down in
Shem—and what’s worse, here are your
soldiers deserting every day.”

She did not at once reply; it was a new
experience for a man to speak so forth¬
rightly to her, his words not couched in
courtier phrases.

"Why are my soldiers deserting,
Conan?” she asked.

"Some are being hired away by Koth,”
he replied, pulling at the wine-jar with
relish. "Many think Khoraja is doomed
as an independent state. Many are fright¬
ened by tales of this dog Natohk.”

"Will the mercenaries stand?” she
asked anxiously.

"As long as you pay us well,” he
answered frankly. "Your politics are

686

WEIRD TALES

nothing to uS. YOU c&n trust Affialfic, Ouf
general, but the rest of us are only com*
moo men who love loot. If you pay the
rafisofti Ophir asks, men sfty you’ll be url*
able td pay us. Id that case we might go
over to the king of Koth, though that
cursed miser is no friend of mine. Or we
might loot this city. In a civil war the
plunder is always plentiful.”

'Why would you not go over to Na*
tohk?” she inquired.

"What could he pay us?” he snorted.
"With fat-bellied brass idols he looted
from the Shemite cities? As long as you’re
fighting Natohk, you may trust us."

"Would your comrades follow you?”
she asked abruptly.

"What do you mean?”

"I mean,” she answered deliberately,
"that I am going to make you commander
of the afmies of Khoraja!”

He stopped short, the goblet at his lips,
which curved in a broad grin. His eyes
blazed with a new light.

"Commander? Crom! But what will
your perfumed nobles say?”

"They will obey me!” She clapped her
hands to summon a slave, who entered,
bowing deeply. "Have Count Thespides
come to me at once, and the chancellor
Taurus, lord Amalric, and the Agha Shu-
pfas.

"I place my trust in Mitra,” she said,
bending her gaze on Conan, who was now
devouring the food placed before him by
the trembling Vateesa. "You have seen
much war?”

"I was born in the midst of a battle,”
he answered, tearing a chunk of meat
from a huge joint with his strong teeth.
"The first sound my ears heard was the
clang of swords and the yells of the slay¬
ing. I have fought in blood-feuds, tribal
wars, and imperial campaigns.”

"But can you lead men and arrange
battle-lines?”

"Well, I can try,” he returned imper¬
turbably. "It’s no more than sword-play
on a larger scale. You draw his guard,
then—stab, slash! And either his head is
off, or yours.”

The slave entered again, announcing
the arrival of the men sent for, and Yas-
mela went into the outer chamber, draw¬
ing the velvet curtains behind her. The
nobles bent the knee, in evident surprize
at her summons at such an hour.

"I have summoned you to tell you of
my decision,” said Yasmela. "The king¬
dom is in peril--”

"Right enough, my princess.” It was
Count Thespides who spoke—a tall man,
whose black locks were curled and Scent¬
ed. With one white hand he smoothed
his pointed mustache, and with the other
he held a velvet chaperon with a scarlet
feather fastened by a golden clasp. His
pointed shoes Were satin, his cote-hardie
of gold-broidered velvet. His manner was
slightly affected, but the thews under his
silks were steely. "It were Well to Offer
Ophir more gold for your royal brother’s
release.”

"I strongly disagree,” broke in Taurus
the chancellor, an elderly man in an er¬
mine-fringed robe, whose features were
lined with the cafes of his long service.
"We have already offered what will beg¬
gar the kingdom to pay. To offer more
would further excite Ophir’s cupidity.
My pfihcess, I say as I have said before:
Ophir will not move until we have met
this invading horde. If we lose, he will
give king Khossus to Koth; if we win, he
will doubtless restore his majesty to us on
payment of the ransom.”

"And in the meantime,” broke in
Amalric, "the soldiers desert daily, and
the mercenaries are restless to know why
we dally.” He was a Nemedian, a large
man with a lion-like yellow mane. "We
must move swiftly, if at all-”

BLACK COLOSSUS

687

"Tomorrow we march southward,” she
answered. "And there is the man who
shall lead you!”

Jerking aside the velvet curtains she
dramatically indicated the Cimmerian. It
was perhaps not an entirely happy mo¬
ment for the disclosure. Conan was
sprawled in his chair, his feet propped on
the ebony table, busily engaged in gnaw¬
ing a beef-bone which he gripped firmly
in both hands. He glanced casually at
the astounded nobles, grinned faintly at
Amalric, and went on munching with un¬
disguised relish.

"Mitra protect us!” exploded Amal¬
ric. "That’s Conan the northron, the
most turbulent of all my rogues! I’d have
hanged him long ago, were he not the
best swordsman that ever donned hau¬
berk-”

"Your highness is pleased to jest!”
cried Thespides, his aristocratic features
darkening. "This man is a savage—a fel¬
low of no culture or breeding! It is an
insult to ask gentlemen to serve under
him! I-”

"Count Thespides,” saidYasmela, "you
have my glove under your baldric. Please
give it to me, and then go.”

"Go?” he cried, starting. "Go where?”

"To Koth or to Hades!” she answered.
"If you will not serve me as I wish, you
shall not serve me at all.”

"You wrong me, princess,” he an¬
swered, bowing low, deeply hurt. "I
would not forsake you. For your sake I
will even put my sword at the disposal
of this savage.”

"And you, my lord Amalric?”

Amalric swore beneath his breath, then
grinned. True soldier of fortune, no
shift of fortune, however outrageous, sur¬
prized him much.

"I’ll serve under him. A short life and
a merry one, say I—and with Conan the

Throat-slitter in command, life is likely
to be both merry and short. Mitra! If
the dog ever commanded more than a
company of cutthroats before, I’ll eat him,
harness and all!”

"And you, my Agha?” She turned to
Shupras.

He shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
He was typical of the race evolved along
Koth’s southern borders—tall and gaunt,
with features leaner and more hawk-like
than his purer-blooded desert kin.

"Ishtar gives, princess.” The fatalism
of his ancestors spoke for him.

"Wait here,” she commanded, and
while Thespides fumed and gnawed his
velvet cap, Taurus muttered wearily under
his breath, and Amalric strode back and
forth, tugging at his yellow beard and
grinning like a hungry lion, Yasmela dis¬
appeared again through the curtains and
clapped her hands for her slaves.

At her command they brought harness
to replace Conan’s chain-mail—gorget,
sollerets, cuirass, pauldrons, jambes, cuis-
ses, and sallet. When Yasmela again
drew the curtains, a Conan in burnished
steel stood before his audience. Clad in
the plate-armor, vizor lifted and dark
face shadowed by the black plumes that
nodded above his helmet, there was a
grim impressiveness about him that even
Thespides grudgingly noted. A jest died
suddenly on Amalric’s lips.

"By Mitra,” said he slowly, "I never
expected to see you cased in coat-armor,
but you do not put it to shame. By my
finger-bones, Conan, I have seen kings
who wore their harness less regally than
you!”

Conan was silent. A vague shadow
crossed his mind like a prophecy. In
years to come he was to remember Amal¬
ric’s words, when the dream became the
reality.

WEIRD TALES

3

I n the early haze of dawn the streets of
Khoraja were thronged by crowds of
people who watched the hosts riding from
the southern gate. The army was on
the move at last. There were the knights,
gleaming in richly wrought plate-armor,
colored plumes Waving above their bur¬
nished sallets. Their steeds, caparisoned
with silk, lacquered leather and gold
buckles, caracoled and curvetted as their
riders put them through their paces. The
early light struck glints from lance-points
that rose like a forest above the array, their
pennons flowing in the breeze. Each
knight wore a lady’s token, a glove, scarf
or rose, bound to his helmet or fastened
to his sword-belt. They were the chivalry
of Khoraja, five hundred strong, led by
Count Thespides, who, men said, aspired
to the hand of Yasmela herself.

They were followed by the light cav¬
alry on rangy steeds. The riders were
typical hillmen, lean and hawk-faced;
peaked steel caps were on their heads and
chain-mail glinted under their flowing
kaftans. Their main weapon was the ter¬
rible Shemitish bow, which could send a
shaft five hundred paces. There were five
thousand of these, and Shupras rode at
their head, his lean face moodv beneath
his spired helmet.

Close on their heels marched the Kho¬
raja spearmen, always comparatively few
in any Hyborian state, where men thought
cavalry the only honorable branch of ser¬
vice. These, like the knights, were of an¬
cient Kothic blood—sons of ruined fam¬
ilies, broken men, penniless youths, who
could not afford horses and plate-armor;
five hundred of them.

The mercenaries brought up the rear, a
thousand horsemen, two thousand spear¬
men. The tall horses of the cavalry
seemed hard and savage as their riders;

they made no curvets or gambades. There
was a grimly business-like aspect to these
professional killers, veterans of bloody
campaigns. Clad from head to foot in
chain-mail, they wore their vizorleSs head-
pieces over linked coifs. Their shields
were unadorned, their long lances with¬
out guidons. At their saddle-bows hung
battle-axeS or steel maces, and each mafi
wore at his hip a long broadsword. The
spearmen were armed in much the same
manner, though they bore pikes instead
of cavalry lances.

They were men of many races and
many crimes. There were tall Hyperbo¬
reans, gaunt, big-boned, of slow speech
and violent natures; tawny-haired Gun-
dermen from the hills of the northwest;
swaggering Corinthian renegades; swarthy
Zingarians, with bristling black mus¬
taches and fiery tempers; Aquilonians
from the distant west. But all, except the
Zingarians, were Hyborians.

Behind all came a camel in rich hous¬
ings, led by a knight on a great war-
horse, and surrounded by a clump of
picked fighters from the royal house-
troops. Its rider, under the silken canopy
of the seat, was a slim, silk-clad figure,
at the sight of which the populace, always
mindful of royalty, threw up its leather
cap and cheered wildly.

Conan the Cimmerian, restless in his
plate-armor, stared at the bedecked camel
with no great approval, and spoke to
Amalric, who rode beside him, resplend¬
ent in chain-mail threaded with gold,
golden breastplate and helmet with a flow¬
ing horsehair crest.

"The princess would go with us. She’s
supple, but too soft for this work. Any¬
way, she’ll have to get out of these robes.”

Amalric twisted his yellow mustache to
hide a grin. Evidently Conan supposed
Yasmela intended to strap on a sword

W. T.—1

BLACK COLOSSUS

and take part in the actual fighting, as the
barbarian women often fought.

"The women of the Hyborians do not
fight like your Cimmerian women, Co¬
nan,” he said. "Yasmela rides with us
to watch the battle. Anyway,” he shifted
in his saddle and lowered his voice, "be¬
tween you and me, I have an idea that the
princess dares not remain behind. She
fears something-”

"An uprising? Maybe we’d better
hang a few citizens before we start-”

"No. One of her maids talked—bab¬
bled about Something that came into the
palace by night and frightened Yasmela
half out of her wits. It’s some of Na-
tohk’s deviltry, I doubt not. Conan, it’s
more than flesh and blood we fight!”

"Well,” grunted the Cimmerian, "it’s
better to go meet an enemy than to wait
for him.”

He glanced at the long line of wagons
and camp-followers, gathered the reins
in his mailed hand, and spoke from habit
the phrase of the marching mercenaries,
"Hell or plunder, comrades—march!”

Behind the long train the ponderous
gates of Khoraja dosed. Eager heads
lined the battlements. The dtizens well
knew they were watching life or death go
forth. If the host was overthrown, the
future of Khoraja would be written in
blood. In the hordes swarming up from
the savage south, mercy was a quality
unknown.

All day the columns marched, through
grassy rolling meadowlands, cut by small
rivers, the terrain gradually beginning to
slope upward. Ahead of them lay a
range of low hills, sweeping in an unbro¬
ken rampart from east to west. They
camped that night on the northern slopes
of those hills, and hook-nosed, fiery-eyed
men of the hill tribes came in scores to
squat about the fires and repeat news that
had come up out of the mysterious desert.

W.T.—2

Through their tales ran the name of Na-
tohk like a crawling serpent. At his bid¬
ding the demons of the air brought thun¬
der and wind and fog, the fiends of the
underworld shook the earth with awful
roaring. He brought fire out of the air
and consumed the gates of walled cities,
and burnt armored men to bits of charred
bone. His warriors covered the desert
with their numbers, and he had five thou¬
sand Stygian troops in war-chariots under
the rebel prince Kutamun.

Conan listened unperturbed. War was
his trade. Life was a continual battle,
or series of battles; since his birth Death
had been a constant companion. It
stalked horrifically at his side; stood at
his shoulder beside the gaming-tables; its
bony fingers rattled the wine-cups. It
loomed above him, a hooded and mon¬
strous shadow, when he lay down to
sleep. He minded its presence no more
than a king minds the presence of his
cup-bearer. Some day its bony grasp
would close; that was all. It was enough
that he lived through the present.

H owever, others were less careless of
fear than he. Striding back from
the sentry lines, Conan halted as a slender
cloaked figure stayed him with an out¬
stretched hand.

"Princess! You should be in your
tent.”

"I could not sleep.” Her dark eyes
were haunted in the shadow. "Conan, I
am afraid!”

"Are there men in the host you fear?”
His hand locked on his hilt.

"No man,” she shuddered. "Conan,
is there anything you fear?”

He considered, tugging at his chin.
"Aye,” he admitted at last, "the curse of
the gods.”

Again she shuddered. "I am cursed.
A fiend from the abysses has set his mark

690

WEIRD TALES

upon me. Night after night he lurks in
the shadows, whispering awful secrets to
me. He will drag me down to be his
queen in hell. I dare not sleep—he will
come to me in my pavilion as he came in
the palace. Conan, you are strong—keep
me with you! I am afraid!”

She was no longer a princess, but only
a terrified girl. Her pride had fallen
from her, leaving her unashamed in her
nakedness. In her frantic fear she had
come to him who seemed strongest. The
ruthless power that had repelled her, drew
her now.

For answer he drew off his scarlet cloak
and wrapped it about her, roughly, as if
tenderness of any kind were impossible
to him. His iron hand rested for an in¬
stant on her slender shoulder, and she
shivered again, but not with fear. Like
an electric shock a surge of animal vital¬
ity swept over her at his mere touch, as if
some of his superabundant strength had
been imparted to her.

"Lie here.” He indicated a dean-swept
space close to a small flickering fire. He
saw no incongruity in a princess lying
down on the naked ground beside a camp¬
fire, wrapped in a warrior’s doak. But
she obeyed without question.

He seated himself near her on a boul¬
der, his broadsword across his knees.
With the firelight glinting from his blue
steel armor, he seemed like an image of
steel—dynamic power for the moment
quiescent; not resting, but motionless for
the instant, awaiting the signal to plunge
again into terrific action. The firelight
played on his features, making them seem
as if carved out of substance shadowy yet
hard as steel. They were immobile, but
his eyes smoldered with fierce life. He
was not merely a wild man; he was part
of the wild, one with the untamable
elements of life; in his veins ran the blood
of the wolf-pack; in his brain lurked the

brooding depths of the northern night;
his heart throbbed with the fire of blazing
forests.

So, half meditating, half dreaming,
Yasmela dropped off to sleep, wrapped in
a sense of delicious security. Somehow
she knew that no flame-eyed shadow
would bend over her in the darkness, with
this grim figure from the outlands stand¬
ing guard above her. Yet once again she
wakened, to shudder in cosmic fear,
though not because of anything she saw.

I T was a low mutter of voices that roused
her. Opening her eyes, she saw that
the fire was burning low. A feeling of
dawn was in the air. She could dimly
see that Conan still sat on the boulder;
she glimpsed the long blue glimmer of
his blade. Close beside him crouched
another figure, on which the dying fire
cast a faint glow. Yasmela drowsily made
out a hooked beak of a nose, a glittering
bead of an eye, under a white turban.
The man was speaking rapidly in a Shem-
ite dialect she found hard to understand.

"Let Bel wither my arm! I speak
truth! By Derketo, Conan, 1 am a prince
of liars, but I do not lie to an old com¬
rade. I swear by the days when we were
thieves together in the land of Zamora,
before you donned hauberk!

"I saw Natohk; with the others I knelt
before him when he made incantations to
Set. But I did not thrust my nose in the
sand as the rest did. I am a thief of Shu-
mir, and my sight is keener than a
weasel’s. I squinted up and saw his veil
blowing in the wind. It blew aside, and
I saw—I saw—Bel aid me, Conan, I say
I saw! My blood froze in my veins and
my hair stood up. What I had seen
burned my soul like a red-hot iron. I
could not rest until I had made sure.

"I journeyed to the ruins of Kuth-
chemes. The door of the ivory dome

BLACK COLOSSUS

691

stood open; in the doorway lay a great
serpent, transfixed by a sword. Within
the dome lay the body of a man, so shriv¬
elled and distorted I could scarce make
it out at first—it was Shevatas, the Zamo-
rian, the only thief in the world I acknowl¬
edged as my superior. The treasure was
untouched; it lay in shimmering heaps
about the corpse. That was all.”

"There were no bones-” began Co¬

nan.

"There was nothing!” broke in the
Shemite passionately. "Nothing! Only
the one corpse!”

Silence reigned an instant, and Yas-
mela shrank with a crawling nameless
horror.

"Whence came Natohk?” rose the
Shemite’s vibrant whisper. "Out of the
desert on a night when the world was
blind and wild with mad clouds driven
in frenzied flight across the shuddering
stars, and the howling of the wind was
mingled with the shrieking of the spirits
of the wastes. Vampires were abroad
that night, witches rode naked on the
wind, and werewolves howled across
the wilderness. On a blade camel he
came, riding like the wind, and an unholy
fire played about him, the cloven tracks of
the camel glowed in the darkness. When
Natohk dismounted before Set’s shrine by
the oasis of Aphaka, the beast swept into
the night and vanished. And I have
talked with tribesmen who swore that it
suddenly spread gigantic wings and
rushed upward into the clouds, leaving a
trail of fire behind it. No man has seen
that camel since that night, but a black
brutish man-like shape shambles to Na¬
tohk’s tent and gibbers to him in the
blackness before dawn. I will tell you,
Conan, Natohk is—look, I will show you
an image of what I saw that day by Shu-
shan when the wind blew aside his veil!”

Yasmela saw the glint of gold in the

Shemite’s hand, as the men bent closely
over something. She heard Conan grunt;
and suddenly blackness rolled over her.
For the first time in her life, princess
Yasmela had fainted.

4

D awn was still a hint of whiteness in
the east when the army was again
on the march. Tribesmen had raced into
camp, their steeds reeling from the long
ride, to report the desert horde encamped
at the Well of Altaku. So through the
hills the soldiers pushed hastily, leaving
the wagon trains to follow. Yasmela
rode with them; her eyes were haunted.
The nameless horror had been taking
even more awful shape, since she had
recognized the coin in the Shemite’s hand
the night before—one of those secretly
molded by the degraded Zugite cult, bear¬
ing the features of a man dead three
thousand years.

The way wound between ragged cliffs
and gaunt crags towering over narrow
valleys. Here and there villages perched,
huddles of stone huts, plastered with
mud. The tribesmen swarmed out to join
their kin, so that before they had traversed
the hills, the host had been swelled by
some three thousand wild archers.

Abruptly they came out of the hills
and caught their breath at the vast expanse
that swept away to the south. On the
southern side the hills fell away sheerly,
marking a distinct geographical division
between the Kothian uplands and the
southern desert. The hills were the rim
of the uplands, stretching in an almost
unbroken wall. Here they were bare and
desolate, inhabited only by the Zaheemi
clan, whose duty it was to guard the cara¬
van road. Beyond the hills the desert
stretched bare, dusty, lifeless. Yet beyond
its horizon lay the Well of Altaku, and
the horde of Natohk.

692

WEIRD TALES

The army looked down on the Pass of
Shamla, through which flowed the wealth
of the north and the south, and through
which had marched the armies of Koth,
Khoraja, Shem, Turan and Stygia. Here
the sheer wall of the rampart was broken.
Promontories ran out into the desert, form¬
ing barren valleys, all but one of which
were closed on the northern extremity by
rugged cliffs. This one was the Pass. It
was much like a great hand extended from
the hills; two fingers, parted, formed a
fan-shaped valley. The fingers were rep¬
resented by a broad ridge on either hand,
the outer sides sheer, the inner, steep
slopes. The vale pitched upward as it
narrowed, to come out on a plateau,
flanked by gully-torn slopes. A well was
there, and a cluster of stone towers, occu¬
pied by the Zaheemis.

There Conan halted, swinging off his
horse. He had discarded the plate-armor
for the more familiar chain-mail. Thespi-
des reined in and demanded, "Why do
you halt?”

"We’ll await them here,” answered
Conan.

" ’T were more knightly to ride out and
meet them,” snapped the count.

"They’d smother us with numbers,”
answered the Cimmerian. "Besides,
there’s no water out there. We’ll camp
on the plateau-”

"My knights and I camp in the valley,”
retorted Thespides angrily. "We are the
vanguard, and we, at least, do not fear a
ragged desert swarm.”

Conan shrugged his shoulders and the
angry nobleman rode away. Amalric
halted in his bellowing order, to watch
the glittering company riding down the
slope into the valley.

"The fools! Their canteens will soon
be empty, and they’ll have to ride back up
to the well to water their horses.”

"Let them be,” replied Conan. "It

goes hard for them to take orders from
me. Tell the dog-brothers to ease their
harness and rest. We’ve marched hard
and fast. Water the horses and let the
men munch.”

No need to send out scouts. The des¬
ert lay bare to the gaze, though just now
this view was limited by low-lying clouds
which rested in whitish masses on the
southern horizon. The monotony was
broken only by a jutting tangle of stone
ruins, some miles out on the desert, re¬
putedly the remnants of an ancient Stygian
temple. Conan dismounted the archers
and ranged them along the ridges, with
the wild tribesmen. He stationed the
mercenaries and the Khoraji spearmen on
the plateau about the well. Farther back,
in the angle where the hill road de¬
bouched on the plateau, was pitched Yas-
mela’s pavilion.

With no enemy in sight, the warriors
relaxed. Basinets were doffed, coifs
thrown back on mailed shoulders, belts
let out. Rude jests flew back and forth
as the fighting-men gnawed beef and
thrust their muzzles deep into ale-jugs.
Along the slopes the hillmen made them¬
selves at ease, nibbling dates and olives.
Amalric strode up to where Conan sat
bareheaded on a boulder.

"Conan, have you heard what the
tribesmen say about Natohk? They say—
Mitra, it’s too mad even to repeat. What
do you think?”

"Seeds rest in the ground for centuries
without rotting, sometimes,” answered
Conan. "But surely Natohk is a man.”

"I am not sure,” grunted Amalric. "At
any rate, you’ve arranged your lines as
well as a seasoned general could have
done. It’s certain Natohk’s devils can’t
fall on us unawares. Mitra, what a fog!”

"I thought it was clouds at first,” an¬
swered Conan. "See how it rolls!”

What had seemed clouds was a thick

BLACK COLOSSUS

693

mist moving northward like a great un¬
stable ocean, rapidly hiding the desert
from view. Soon it engulfed the Stygian
ruins, and still it rolled onward. The
army watched in amazement. It was a
thing unprecedented—unnatural and in¬
explicable.

"No use sending out scouts,” said
Amalric disgustedly. "They couldn’t see
anything. Its edges are near the outer
flanges of the ridges. Soon the whole
Pass and these hills will be masked-”

Conan, who had been watching the
rolling mist with growing nervousness,
bent suddenly and laid his ear to the
earth. He sprang up with frantic haste,
swearing.

"Horses and chariots, thousands of
them! The ground vibrates to their tread!
Ho, there!” his voice thundered out across
the valley to electrify the lounging men.
"Burganets and pikes, you dogs! Stand
to your ranks!”

At that, as the warriors scrambled into
their lines, hastily donning head-pieces
and thrusting arms through shield-straps,
the mist rolled away, as something no
longer useful. It did not slowly lift and
fade like a natural fog; it simply van¬
ished, like a blown-out flame. One mo¬
ment the whole desert was hidden with
the rolling fleecy billows, piled mountain-
ously, stratum above stratum; the next,
the sun shone from a cloudless sky on a
naked desert—no longer empty, but
thronged with the living pageantry of war.
A great shout shook the hills.

A t first glance the amazed watchers
k- seemed to be looking down upon a
glittering sparkling sea of bronze and gold,
where steel points twinkled like a myriad
stars. With the lifting of the fog the in¬
vaders had halted as if frozen, in long
serried lines, flaming in the sun.

First was a long line of chariots, drawn

by the great fierce horses of Stygia, with
plumes on their heads—snorting and
rearing as each naked driver leaned back,
bracing his powerful legs, his dusky arms
knotted with muscles. The fighting-men
in the chariots were tall figures, their
hawk-like faces set off by bronze helmets
crested with a crescent supporting a gold¬
en ball. Heavy bows were in their hands.
No common archers, these, but nobles of
the South, bred to war and the hunt, who
were accustomed to bringing down lions
with their arrows.

Behind these came a motley array of
wild men on half-wild horses—the war¬
riors of Kush, the first of the great black
kingdoms of the grasslands south of
Stygia. They were shining ebony, supple
and lithe, riding stark naked and without
saddle or bridle.

After these rolled a horde that seemed
to encompass all the desert. Thousands
on thousands of the war-like Sons of
Shem: ranks of horsemen in scale-mail
corselets and cylindrical helmets — the
asshuri of Nippr, Shumir, and Eruk and
their sister cities; wild white-robed
hordes—the nomad clans.

Now the ranks began to mill and eddy.
The chariots drew off to one side while
the main host came uncertainly onward.
Down in the valley the knights had
mounted, and now Count Thespides gal¬
loped up the slope to where Conan stood.
He did not deign to dismount but spoke
abruptly from the saddle.

"The lifting of the mist has confused
them! Now is the time to charge! The
Kushites have no bows and they mask the
whole advance. A charge of my knights
will crush them back into the ranks of
the Shemites, disrupting their formation.
Follow me! We will win this battle with
one stroke!”

Conan shook his head. "Were we
fighting a natural foe, I would agree. But

694

WEIRD TALES

this confusion is more feigned than real,
as if to draw us into a charge. I fear a
trap.”

"Then you refuse to move?” cried
Thespides, his face dark with passion.

"Be reasonable,” expostulated Conan.
"We have the advantage of position-”

With a furious oath Thespides wheeled
and galloped back down the valley where
his knights waited impatiently.

Amalric shook his head. "You should
not have let him return, Conan. I—look
there!”

Conan sprang up with a curse. Thes¬
pides had swept in beside his men. They
could hear his impassioned voice faintly,
but his gesture toward the approaching
horde was significant enough. In another
instant five hundred lances dipped and
the steel-clad company was thundering
down the valley.

A young page came running from Yas-
mela’s pavilion, crying to Conan in a
shrill, eager voice, "My lord, the princess
asks why you do not follow and support
Count TTiespides?”

"Because I am not so great a fool as
he,” grunted Conan, reseating himself on
the boulder and beginning to gnaw a huge
beef-bone.

"You grow sober with authority,”
quoth Amalric. "Such madness as that
was always your particuluar joy.”

“Aye, when I had only my own life to
consider,” answered Conan. "Now—
what in hell-”

The horde had halted. From the ex¬
treme wing rushed a chariot, the naked
charioteer lashing the steeds like a mad¬
man; the other occupant was a tall figure
whose robe floated spectrally on the wind.
He held in his arms a great vessel of gold
and from it poured a thin stream that
sparkled in the sunlight. Across the
whole front of the desert horde the char¬
iot swept, and behind its thundering

wheels was left, like the wake behind a
ship, a long thin powdery line that glit¬
tered in the sands like the phosphorescent
track of a serpent.

"That’s Natohk!” swore Amalric.
"What hellish seed is he sowing?”

The charging knights had not checked
their headlong pace. Another fifty paces
and they would crash into the uneven
Kushite ranks, which stood motionless,
spears lifted. Now the foremost knights
had reached the thin line that glittered
across the sands. They did not heed that
crawling menace. But as the steel-shod
hoofs of the horses struck it, it was as
when steel strikes flint—but with more
terrible result. A terrific explosion rocked
the desert, which seemed to split apart
along the strewn line with an awful burst
of white flame.

In that instant the whole foremost line
of the knights was seen enveloped in that
flame, horses and steel-clad riders wither¬
ing in the glare like insects in an open
blaze. The next instant the rear ranks
were piling up on their charred bodies.
Unable to check their headlong velocity,
rank after rank crashed into the ruins.
With appalling suddenness the charge
had turned into a shambles where armored
figures died amid screaming mangled
horses.

Now the illusion of confusion vanished
as the horde settled into orderly lines.
The wild Kushites rushed into the sham¬
bles, spearing the wounded, bursting the
helmets of the knights with stones and
iron hammers. It was all over so quickly
that the watchers on the slopes stood
dazed; and again the horde moved for¬
ward, splitting to avoid the charred waste
of corpses. From the hills went up a
cry: "We fight not men but devils!”

On either ridge the hillmen wavered.
One rushed toward the plateau, froth
dripping from his beard.

BLACK COLOSSUS

695

"Flee! flee!” he slobbered. "Who can
fight Natohk’s magic?”

With a snarl Conan bounded from his
boulder and smote him with the beef-bone;
he dropped, blood starting from nose and
mouth. Conan drew his sword, his eyes
slits of blue bale-fire.

"Back to your posts!” he yelled. "Let
another take a backward step and I’ll
shear off his head! Fight, damn you!”

T he rout halted as quickly as it had
begun. Conan’s fierce personality
was like a dash of ice-water in their whirl¬
ing blaze of terror.

"Take your places,” he directed quick¬
ly. "And stand to it! Neither man nor
devil comes up Shamla Pass this day!”

Where the plateau rim broke to the
valley slope the mercenaries braced their
belts and gripped their spears. Behind
them the lancers sat their steeds, and to
one side were stationed the Khoraja
spearmen as reserves. To Yasmela,
standing white and speechless at the door
of her tent, the host seemed a pitiful
handful in comparison to the thronging
desert horde.

Conan stood among the spearmen. He
knew the invaders would not try to drive
a chariot charge up the Pass in the teeth
of the archers, but he grunted with sur¬
prize to see the riders dismounting. These
wild men had no supply trains. Canteens
and pouches hung at their saddle-peaks.
Now they drank the last of their water
and threw the canteens away.

"This is the death-grip,” he muttered
as the lines formed on foot. "I’d rather
have had a cavalry charge; wounded
horses bolt and ruin formations.”

The horde had formed into a huge
wedge, of which the tip was the Stygians
and the body, the mailed asshuri, flanked
by the nomads. In close formation,
shields lifted, they rolled onward, while

behind them a tall figure in a motionless
chariot lifted wide-robed arms in grisly in¬
vocation.

As the horde entered the wide valley
mouth the hillmen loosed their shafts.
In spite of the protective formation, men
dropped by dozens. The Stygians had
discarded their bows; helmeted heads
bent to the blast, dark eyes glaring over
the rims of their shields, they came on in
an inexorable surge, striding over their
fallen comrades. But the Shemites gave
back the fire, and the clouds of arrows
darkened the skies. Conan gazed over the
billowing waves of spears and wondered
what new horror the sorcerer would in¬
voke. Somehow he felt that Natohk, like
all his kind, was more terrible in defense
than in attack; to take the offensive against
him invited disaster.

But surely it was magic that drove the
horde on in the teeth of death. Conan
caught his breath at the havoc wrought
in the onsweeping ranks. The edges of
the wedge seemed melting away, and al¬
ready the valley was strewn with dead
men. Yet the survivors came on like
madmen unaware of death. By the very
numbers of their bows, they began to
swamp the archers on the cliffs. Clouds
of shafts sped upward, driving the hill-
men to cover. Panic struck at their hearts
at that unwavering advance, and they
plied their bows madly, eyes glaring like
trapped wolves.

As the horde neared the narrower neck
of the Pass, boulders thundered down,
crushing men by the scores, but the charge
did not waver. Conan’s wolves braced
themselves for the inevitable concussion.
In their close formation and superior
armor, they took little hurt from the ar¬
rows. It was the impact of the charge
Conan feared, when the huge wedge
should crash against his thin ranks. And
he realized now there was no breaking of

696

WEIRD TALES

that onslaught. He gripped the shoulder
of a Zaheemi who stood near.

"Is there any way by which mounted
men can get down into the blind valley
beyond that western ridge?”

"Aye, a steep, perilous path, secret
and eternally guarded. But-”

Conan was dragging him along to
where Amalric sat his great war-horse.

"Amalric!” he snapped. "Follow this
man! He’ll lead you into yon outer val¬
ley. Ride down it, circle the end of the
ridge, and strike the horde from the rear.
Speak not, but go! I know it’s madness,
but we’re doomed anyway; we’ll do all
the damage we can before we die! Haste!”

Amalric’s mustache bristled in a fierce
grin, and a few moments later his lancers
were following the guide into a tangle of
gorges leading off from the plateau. Co¬
nan ran back to the pikemen, sword in
hand.

He was not too soon. On either ridge
Shupras’ hillmen, mad with anticipation
of defeat, rained down their shafts des¬
perately. Men died like flies in the val¬
ley and along the slopes—and with a roar
and an irresistible upward surge the Styg-
ians crashed against the mercenaries.

In a hurricane of thundering steel, the
lines twisted and swayed. It was war-
bred noble against professional soldier.
Shields crashed against shields, and be¬
tween them spears drove in and blood
spurted.

Conan saw the mighty form of prince
Kutamun across the sea of swords, but
the press held him hard, breast to breast
with dark shapes that gasped and slashed.
Behind the Stygians the asshuri were surg¬
ing and yelling.

On either hand the nomads climbed
the cliffs and came to hand-grips with
their mountain kin. All along the crests
of the ridges the combat raged in blind,
gasping ferocity. Tooth and nail, froth¬

ing mad with fanaticism and ancient
feuds, the tribesmen rent and slew and
died. Wild hair flying, the naked Kush-
ites ran howling into the fray.

It seemed to Conan that his sweat-
blinded eyes looked down into a rising
ocean of steel that seethed and eddied,
filling the valley from ridge to ridge.
The fight was at a bloody deadlock. The
hillmen held the ridges, and the mer¬
cenaries, gripping their dripping pikes,
bracing their feet in the bloody earth,
held the Pass. Superior position and
armor for a space balanced the advantage
of overwhelming numbers. But it could
not endure. Wave after wave of glar¬
ing faces and flashing spears surged
up the slope, the asshuri filling the gaps
in the Stygian ranks.

Conan looked to see Amalric’s lances
rounding the western ridge, but they did
not come, and the pikemen began to reel
back under the shocks. And Conan aban¬
doned all hope of victory and of life.
Yelling a command to his gasping cap¬
tains, he broke away and raced across the
plateau to the Khoraja reserves who stood
trembling with eagerness. He did not
glance toward Yasmela’s pavilion. He
had forgotten the princess; his one
thought was the wild beast instinct to slay
before he died.

"This day you become knights!” he
laughed fiercely, pointing with his drip¬
ping sword toward the hillmen horses,
herded near by. "Mount and follow me
to hell!”

T he hill steeds reared wildly under
the unfamiliar clash of the Kothic
armor, and Conan’s gusty laugh rose
above the din as he led them to where
the eastern ridge branched away from the
plateau. Five hundred footmen—pauper
patricians, younger sons, black sheep—on
half-wild Shemite horses, charging an

BLACK COLOSSUS

697

army, down a slope where no cavalry had
ever dared charge before!

Past the battle-choked mouth of the
Pass they thundered, out onto the corpse-
littered ridge. Down the steep slope they
rushed, and a score lost their footing and
rolled under the hoofs of their comrades.
Below them men screamed and threw up
their arms—and the thundering charge
ripped through them as an avalanche cuts
through a forest of saplings. On through
the close-packed throngs the Khorajis
hurtled, leaving a crushed-down carpet of
dead.

And then, as the horde writhed and
coiled upon itself, Amalric’s lancers, hav¬
ing cut through a cordon of horsemen en¬
countered in the outer valley, swept
around the extremity of the western ridge
and smote the host in a steel-tipped
wedge, splitting it asunder. His attack
carried all the dazing demoralization of a
surprize on the rear. Thinking them¬
selves flanked by a superior force and
frenzied at the fear of being cut off from
the desert, swarms of nomads broke and
stampeded, working havoc in the ranks
of their more stedfast comrades. These
staggered and the horsemen rode through
them. Up on the ridges th^ desert fight¬
ers wavered, and the hillmen fell on them
with renewed fury, driving them down
the slopes.

Stunned by surprize, the horde broke
before they had time to see it was but a
handful which assailed them. And once
broken, not even a magician could weld
such a horde again. Across the sea of
heads and spears Conan’s madmen saw
Amalric’s riders forging steadily through
the rout, to the rise and fall of axes and
maces, and a mad joy of victory exalted
each man’s heart and made his arm steel.

Bracing their feet in the wallowing sea
of blood whose crimson waves lapped
about their ankles, the pikemen in the

Pass mouth drove forward, crashing
strongly against the milling ranks before
them. The Stygians held, but behind
them the press of the asshuri melted; and
over the bodies of the nobles of the south
who died in their tracks to a man, the
mercenaries rolled, to split and crumple
the wavering mass behind.

Up on the cliffs old Shupras lay with
an arrow through his heart; Amalric was
down, swearing like a pirate, a spear
through his mailed thigh. Of Conan’s
mounted infantry, scarce a hundred and
fifty remained in the saddle. But the
horde was shattered. Nomads and mailed
spearmen broke away, fleeing to their
camp where their horses were, and the
hillmen swarmed down the slopes, stab¬
bing the fugitives in the back, cutting the
throats of the wounded.

In the swirling red chaos a terrible ap¬
parition suddenly appeared before Conan’s
rearing steed. It was prince Kutamun,
naked but for a loin-clout, his harness
hacked away, his crested helmet dented,
his limbs splashed with blood. With a
terrible shout he hurled his broken hilt
full into Conan’s face, and leaping, seized
the stallion’s bridle. The Cimmerian
reeled in his saddle, half stunned, and
with awful strength the dark-skinned
giant forced the screaming steed upward
and backward, until it lost its footing and
crashed into the muck of bloody sand and
writhing bodies.

Conan sprang clear as the horse fell,
and with a roar Kutamun was on him. In
that mad nightmare of battle, the bar¬
barian never exactly knew how he killed
his man. He only knew that a stone in the
Stygian’s hand crashed again and again
on his basinet, filling his sight with flash¬
ing sparks, as Conan drove his dagger
again and again into his foe’s body, with¬
out apparent effect on the prince’s terrible
vitality. The world was swimming to

698

WEIRD TALES

Conan’s sight, when with a convulsive
shudder the frame that strained against his
stiffened and then went limp.

Reeling up, blood streaming down his
face from under his dented helmet, Conan
glared dizzily at the profusion of destruc¬
tion which spread before him. From crest
to crest the dead lay strewn, a red carpet
that choked the valley. It was like a red
sea, with each wave a straggling line of
corpses. They choked the neck of the Pass,
they littered the slopes. And down in the
desert the slaughter continued, where the
survivors of the horde had reached their
horses and streamed out across the waste,
pursued by the weary victors—and Conan
stood appalled as he noted how few of
these were left to pursue.

Then an awful scream rent the clamor.
Up the valley a chariot came flying, mak¬
ing nothing of the heaped corpses. No
horses drew it, but a great black creature
that was like a camel. In the chariot stood
Natohk, his robes flying; and gripping the
reins and lashing like mad, crouched a
black anthropomorphic being that might
have been a monster ape.

With a rush of burning wind the
chariot swept up the corpse-littered slope,
straight toward the pavilion where Yasme-
la stood alone, deserted by her guards in
the frenzy of pursuit. Conan, standing
frozen, heard her frenzied scream as
Natohk’s long arm swept her up into the
chariot. Then the grisly steed wheeled
and came racing back down the valley,
and no man dared speed arrow or spear
lest he strike Yasmela, who writhed in
Natohk’s arms.

With an inhuman cry Conan caught up
his fallen sword and leaped into the path
of the hurtling horror. But even as his
sword went up, the forefeet of the black
beast smote him like a thunderbolt and
sent him hurtling a score of feet away,
dazed and bruised. Yasmela’s cry came

hauntingly to his stunned ears as the
chariot roared by.

A yell that had nothing of the human
in its timbre rang from his lips as Conan
rebounded from the bloody earth and
seized the rein of a riderless horse that
raced past him, throwing himself into the
saddle without bringing the charger to a
halt. With mad abandon he raced after
the rapidly receding chariot. He struck
the levels flying, and passed like a whirl¬
wind through the Shemite camp. Into
the desert he fled, passing clumps of his
own riders, and hard-spurring desert
horsemen.

On flew the chariot, and on raced
Conan, though his horse began to reel
beneath him. Now the open desert lay all
about them, bathed in the lurid desolate
splendor of sunset. Before him rose up
the ancient ruins, and with a shriek that
froze the blood in Conan’s veins, the un¬
human charioteer cast Natohk and the
girl from him. They rolled on the sand,
and to Conan’s dazed gaze, the chariot
and its steed altered awfully. Great wings
spread from a black horror that in no way
resembled a camel, and it rushed upward
into the sky, bearing in its wake a shape
of blinding flame, in which a black man¬
like shape gibbered in ghastly triumph.
So quickly it passed, that it was like the
rush of a nightmare through a horror-
haunted dream.

N atohk sprang up, cast a swift look
at his grim pursuer, who had not
halted but came riding hard, with sword
swinging low and spattering red drops;
and the sorcerer caught up the fainting
girl and ran with her into the ruins.

Conan leaped from his horse and
plunged after them. He came into a room
that glowed with unholy radiance,
though outside dusk was falling swiftly.
On a black jade altar lay Yasmela, herj

BLACK COLOSSUS

699

naked body gleaming like ivory in the
weird light. Her garments lay strewn on
the floor, as if ripped from her in brutal
haste. Natohk faced the Cimmerian—in¬
humanly tall and lean, dad in shimmer¬
ing green silk. He tossed back his veil,
and Conan looked into the features he had
seen depicted on the Zugite coin.

"Aye, blench, dog!” the voice was like
the hiss of a giant serpent. "I am Thugra
Khotan! Long I lay in my tomb, await¬
ing the day of awakening and release.
The arts which saved me from the bar¬
barians long ago likewise imprisoned me,
but I knew one would come in time—and
he came, to fulfill his destiny, and to die
as no man has died in three thousand
years!

"Fool, do you think you have con¬
quered because my people are scattered?
Because I have been betrayed and desert¬
ed by the demon I enslaved? I am Thugra
Khotan, who shall rule the world despite
your paltry gods! The desert is filled with
my people; the demons of the earth shall
do my bidding, as the reptiles of the earth
obey me. Lust for a woman weakened my
sorcery. Now the woman is mine, and
feasting on her soul, I shall be unconquer¬
able! Back, fool! You have not con¬
quered Thugra Khotan!”

He cast his staff and it fell at the feet
of Conan, who recoiled with an invol¬
untary cry. For as it fell it altered hor¬
ribly; its outline melted and writhed, and
a hooded cobra reared up hissing before
the horrified Cimmerian. With a furious
oath Conan struck, and his sword sheared
the horrid shape in half. And there at his
feet lay only the two pieces of a severed
ebon staff. Thugra Khotan laughed awful¬
ly, and wheeling, caught up something
that crawled loathsomely in the dust of
the floor.

In his extended hand something alive
writhed and slavered. No tricks of shad¬

ows this time. In his naked hand Thugra
Khotan gripped a black scorpion, more
than a foot in length, the deadliest crea¬
ture of the desert, the stroke of whose
spiked tail was instant death. Thu¬
gra Khotan’s skull-like countenance split
in a mummy-like grin. Conan hesitated;
then without warning he threw his sword.

Caught off guard, Thugra Khotan had
no time to avoid the cast. The point
struck beneath his heart and stood out a
foot behind his shoulders. He went
down, crushing the poisonous monster in
his grasp as he fell.

Conan strode to the altar, lifting Yas-
mela in his blood-stained arms. She threw
her white arms convulsively about his
mailed neck, sobbing hysterically, and
would not let him go.

"Crom’s devils, girl!” he grunted.
"Loose me! Fifty thousand men have per¬
ished today, and there is work for me to

"No!” she gasped, clinging with con¬
vulsive strength, as barbaric for the in¬
stant as he in her fear and passion. "I
will not let, you go! I am yours, by fire
and steel and blood! You are mine! Back
there, I belong to others—here I am mine
—and yours! You shall not go!”

He hesitated, his own brain reeling
with the fierce upsurging of his violent
passions. The lurid unearthly glow still
hovered in the shadowy chamber, lighting
ghostlily the dead face of Thugra Kho¬
tan, which seemed to grin mirthlessly
and cavernously at them. Out on the des¬
ert, in the hills among the oceans of dead,
men were dying, were howling with
wounds and thirst and madness, and
kingdoms were staggering. Then all was
swept away by the crimson tide that rode
madly in Conan’s soul, as he crushed
fiercely in his iron arms the slim white
body that shimmered like a witch-fire of
madness before him.

By JACK WILLIAMSON

A tale of weird adventures in the hidden land beyond the cruel Rub' Al Khali
desert, and a golden folk that ride on a golden-yellow
tiger and worship a golden snake

The Story Thus Far

YNAMITING their schooner
behind them on the south coast
of Arabia, a little band of desper¬
ate adventurers struck out inland, plung¬
ing into the hostile mystery of the Rub’
Al Khali, the world’s crudest and least-
known desert. Their leaders were Price
Durand, wealthy American soldier of for¬
tune, Jacob Garth, enigmatic Englishman,
and Joao de Castro, unsavory Macanese.

Equipped with an army tank, machine-
guns, and mountain artillery, and accom¬
panied by the sheikh Fouad el Akmet and
his renegade Bedouins, they are raiding
the forbidden "golden land,” which is
guarded by the uncanny scientific powers
of its weird rulers, the "golden folk”—a
man, an exotic woman, a huge, domesti¬
cated tiger, and a gigantic snake, all four
of which appear amazingly to be of eter¬
nal yellow metal, and yet immortally alive.

Aysa, a strange, lovely fugitive from
Malikar, the golden man, was captured
and ill-used by de Castro; and Price
Durand, unable to save her in any other
way, left the party with her. The two
reached Anz, an ancient, sand-buried city,
where they discovered the tomb of Iru,
an ancient king who was the enemy of the
deathless "golden folk.”

Malikar came riding on the golden
tiger in quest of Aysa. Price fought him
in the catacombs under Anz, with the
golden ax of Iru, which is tempered hard
700

as steel. The age-old ax-helve broke, and
Price was defeated. Malikar carried off
the girl, and left him sealed in the tomb,
with the bones and the weapons of the
barbarian king of whom Aysa believes
him to be the reincarnation.

11. The Tiger’s Trail

A fter a time Price gave up his frantic
>- attempts to force the vault’s locked
door, and sank back exhausted on the chill
stone floor of the ancient tomb.

Panic was near, the red, blind insanity
of terror. His body was a-tremble, clam¬
my with sudden sweat. He found himself
beating with his hands on the polished
cold stone, and the vault was full of his
hoarse, useless shouts.

A quiet voice in his brain bade him sit
down, and conserve his strength, and
think. His situation was extreme, almost
melodramatic—locked in a tomb, in the
catacombs beneath Anz, beneath a sand-
whelmed city centuries lost. Fear-nerved
struggles would get him nowhere. He
must collect his scattered senses, think.

He dared not hope for outside aid.
Malikar and his acolytes, departing with
the captive Aysa, had obviously left him
here to die. The vault must be opened by
his own efforts. And he had not long for
the task; the air was already vitiated. His
lungs were gasping in the musty stuff with
great gulps; his head rang and roared.

This story begun in WKiltD TALKS (or April

GOLDEN BLOOD

701

Already half suffocated, he was still dazed square chamber. Among scattered human
from Malikar's final blow. bones he saw the broken helve of the ax,

Pressing his hands to his throbbing then the shining golden head of it, at the
head, Price tried to think. He must take door. The oval shield was near, the heavy
stock of his prison. If he could find some yellow mail still upon his body,
tool . . . Abruptly giddy from the splitting pain

Anxiously he fumbled for his matches, in his head, he leaned on the cold wail,
felt the little box. With a sigh of relief and lighted a cigarette with the dying
he struck a light, peered about the tiny match. The smoke cleared his brain a

702

WEIRD TALES

little; it hid the musty charnel odor of the
vault. But still his head throbbed, still his
mouth was bitter and dry.

When the cigarette was gone he lit
another match, and examined the door, a
massive slab of hewn and polished gran¬
ite, cleverly hung, so that metal lock and
hinges were concealed. On the outside
there was a golden knob. But its smooth
black inner surface was unbroken.

Forcing himself to deliberate and un¬
hurried movement, he picked up the head
of the golden ax. Wrapping his hand¬
kerchief about the blade to protect his fin¬
gers, he attacked the door with the pick¬
like point opposite the cutting edge.

The hidden mechanism of the lock, he
reasoned, must be contained in a cavity in
the stone, at the level of the golden knob.
The shell of granite covering it would be
relatively thin; it might be possible to
break it away.

The stone was obdurate, his tool
clumsy. His head drummed with pain,
and the air was rapidly becoming un-
breathable. Gasping for breath, he reeled
as he worked, occasionally striking a
match to estimate his progress.

For a time that seemed hours he toiled,
when another man might have cursed and
dropped his tool and flung himself down
to die. The idea of defeat, of failure, was
not in Price Durand’s nature. He had a
vast confidence that the Durand luck—
though it had so recently betrayed him—
would come to his rescue, if he just kept
fighting.

Thought of Aysa, as much as his own
safety, spurred him on. He knew that he
loved the brown-haired, gayly brave fugi¬
tive. She was his, by some immutable law
of life. Her captivity filled him with
savage resentment.

Ringing hollow beneath the ax-point,
the shell of rock cracked at last. Rapidly,
then, it crumbled beneath his blows.

Holding a match in one hand, he manipu¬
lated the bronze levers and tumblers of
the ancient lock.

Staggering and blind with fatigue and
asphyxiation, he slid back the great bolt,
swung the door inward, and pitched
through the opening into the cleaner air
of the open catacombs.

In delirious joy he sucked in the air that
had once seemed musty and stale, until
he was able to light one of the torches he
and Aysa had brought into the crypts.
Then, taking up the ax and the oval
shield, he found the stair, and climbed
wearily back to the surface.

P RICE laughed weakly and uncertainly,
for pure joy, when he came into the
hot, white noonday light of the hidden
garden. He stood a while in the sun, half
blind, drinking up the blazing radiance,
the warm fresh air.

Presently he stumbled to the fountain
and washed his mouth and drank. Oil-
lapsing upon the grass beside the pool, he
dropped into the sleep of complete ex¬
haustion.

Upon the dawn of a clear, still day, he
woke, ravenously hungry. His head was
clear again, the bruise of Malikar’s mace
subsiding. As he found food from the
slender remaining store, and ate, his mind
was busy with the problem of Aysa’s
rescue.

It is characteristic of Price that he did
not pause to wonder whether he could
liberate the girl. His only problem was
how.

It was in the soft earth where water
had overflowed from the pool that he
found the tiger’s tracks, after he had
eaten. At first he could not think what
had made them, they were so amazingly
huge. Though shaped like those of any
cat, they were large as an elephant’s.
Eagerly he followed the deep prints

GOLDEN BLOOD

,705

along the side of the garden, out of the
walled court, and off among the sand-
heaped ruins of Anz. The wind had not
yet moved sufficient sand to efface them.

At once he determined to follow the
tiger’s trail. That, surely, would be the
shortest path to Aysa. He did not pause
to reflect upon the dangers and difficulties
that might lie before him, except in order
to prepare to meet them. He did not con¬
sider his probable failure; procrastination
was not in his nature, for Price Xvas a man
of action.

Delay would mean disaster. The loose
red sand, flowing almost like a liquid
beneath the wind, would soon obliterate
the prints. But he had to make a few
preparations before taking the trail.

First he searched the oasis for a stick
of hardwood, carved out a new helve and
fitted it to the golden ax, which was now
his only weapon.

Then he saddled the two camels, which
had regained much of their lost strength
upon the lush vegetation of the oasis, and
packed the full water-skins, and a bundle
of green forage, upon Aysa’s beast.

Mounting his own hejin and leading
the other, he rode out of the hidden oasis
where he had found the zenith of happi¬
ness and the nadir of despair, rode
through the shattered piles of sand-
leaguered Anz, and over a yellow-red
dune that had conquered the black walls.

All day he followed the gigantic tracks.
Straight northward they led him, across a
billowing sea of crescent hills. The trail,
at first, was easy enough to follow. But
in the blazing afternoon a breath of wind
arose, furnace-hot, and the obliterating
drift-sand crept rustling before it.

By sunset the trail was hardly distin¬
guishable. A dozen times Price lost it on
the upward slope of a dune, only to pick
it up again in the hollow beyond. At dusk
he had to stop.

The camels were weary. They had not
been completely recovered from the ter¬
rible journey to Anz. And Price, in his
desperate haste, had urged them on un¬
sparingly. He fed them the green forage,
ate and drank meagerly, and rolled him¬
self in his blanket, praying that the wind
would stop.

It blew harder, instead. All night dry
sands whispered with the desert’s ghostly
voice, mockingly, as if they taunted Price
with Aysa’s fate at the hands of the gold¬
en Malikar. Long before dawn the trait
was swept out completely.

B efore sunrise Price saddled the he jins
again, and rode on in the same direc¬
tion that the trail had led him, driving
the jaded animals to the limit of their en¬
durance.

That afternoon his own mount fell
down upon the hot sand and died. He
gave most of the remaining water to
Aysa’s dromedary, and rode on, into the
unknown north. From the next dune he
looked back at the white shape sprawled
in the sun ... a hardy beast; it had served
him well and he regretted to leave so , . .
and he rode on over the crest.

Some time on the next day—the shad¬
ow of the desert’s madness was already
descending upon him; he never remem¬
bered whether it was morning or after¬
noon—he came out of the dunes, upon a
vast flat plain of yellow clay.

Upon that, he reasoned with the dull
effort that precedes delirium, the giant
tracks would not have been obliterated by
the wind. After an hour’s riding back and
forth, he found the enormous prints
again, and followed them doggedly across
the clay-pan.

The water was all gone that night. He
lay down near the camel, in a dry wadi.
His mouth was swollen and dry; he was
too thirsty to sleep. But even if he could

704

WEIRD TALES

not sleep, he dreamed. Dreamed that he
was back with Aysa at the lost oasis,
drinking from the stone-rimmed pools
and plucking fresh fruit. The dreams
verged oddly into reality. He caught him¬
self speaking to Aysa, and woke again
with a start to his desolate surroundings.

Day came, and he rode on. The fevered
dreams did not stop. He was bade in Anz,
with the lovely Aysa. He was with her in
the deep tomb of Iru, fighting Malikar.
He was back in the camp on the road of
skulls freeing her from the clutches of
Joao de Castro.

But through all the visions of his half-
delirium, a single idea reigned in his spin¬
ning brain. A fixed purpose dominated
him. And he urged the flagging camel
northward, along the trail of a gigantic
tiger.

Again the trail become more difficult
to follow. The clay was flinty, harder; the
great feet had left but slight impressions.
In the afternoon the hard yellow pan gave
way to bare black lava, to a flat, volcanic
plateau whose sharp-edged, fire-twisted
rocks were hard going for the foot-sore
camel, and upon which the golden tiger
had left no mark.

There the tracks were hopelessly lost.
Price abandoned any attempt to find traces
of the huge pads, and rode straight on
over the rocky terrain, into the north.
Night came, and moonless darkness. And
still he urged the half-dead dromedary
on, toward the pole-star, glittering pale
above the desert horizon.

Polaris danced and beckoned and taunt¬
ed. Strange pageantries of madness ap¬
peared and dissolved upon the star-lit
desert. And Price rode on. Sometimes he
forgot the reason, and wondered what he
would find beneath the star. But still he
rode on.

12. "The Rock of Hell”

P RICE woke in the dawn, chilled and
shivering beneath his blanket. The
emaciated hejin sprawled beside him. He
staggered to his feet, trying in vain to re¬
call when he had stopped, and saw the
mountain.

In the cold, motionless desert air, it
looked very near, only a few miles across
the barren, black volcanic plain, a moun¬
tain shaped like a truncated cone, rugged,
steep-walled. On its summit was a bright
coronal, a golden crest that exploded into
scintillant splendor when the first sun¬
light touched it.

Price feared at first that it was mirage
or delirium; but complete sanity had come
back to him for a little while, with the
chill of the dawn, and he knew the moun¬
tain was no dream. And it was too early
for mirage; the mountain was too motion¬
lessly real.

He remembered the old Arab’s story of
a blade mountain, Hajar ] eh annum, or
"Rock of Hell”, upon which golden djinti
dwelt in a palace of yellow metal.

The parchment of Quadra y Vargas, the
old Spanish soldier of fortune, came back
to his mind, with its fantastic account of
golden folk—"idols of gold that live and
move”—dwelling upon a mountain in la
casa dorada, and worshipped like gods by
the people of the oasis below.

It had all seemed impossible. But he
had seen the golden tiger, and its yellow
riders, had fought with Malikar, and fol¬
lowed the tiger’s trail for grim long days.
Now here was the mountain, with its
crown of gold. Impossible. But was it,
like so many impossible things, true?

He goaded the staggering, grumbling
hejin to its feet, climbed into the saddle,
and rode on, toward the mountain. Aysa
had been taken there, he knew, upon the
golden tiger, by her yellow captor. And
there he was going after her. It might
W. T.—2

GOLDEN BLOOD

705

not be easy to find her and set her free,
but he was going to do it. If he himself
failed, there was yet the Durand luck.

All day he went on toward the maun’
tain. Sometimes the camel reeled and
staggered. Then he dismounted and
stumbled along on foot, driving it for a
distance, until it could rest.

The grim lava tableland seemed to
stretch out as he advanced. But at sunset
he could distinguish the towers and spires
of the glittering castle, shimmering, splen¬
did, drawing him with resistless fascina¬
tion.

Once more he toiled on, far into the
night. At dawn the black rock seemed no
nearer, but merely larger. Its black walls,
of columnar basalt, frowned precipitously
grim. They seemed unscalable. Price, in
the more lucid periods of his brain-fevered
advance, wondered how the castle could
be reached.

A crenelated wall of black stone skirted
the top of the cliffs—a wall apparently
useless, for half a mile of sheer precipice
hung below it. Within rose the piles of
the unattainable castle. The blazing ful*
gor of gold, and the brilliant white of
alabaster. Twisted domes and turrets.
Slim towers. Balconied minarets. Broad
roofs and pointed spires. Yellow gold,
and white marble.

The high castle was not all of gold. But
even so, the value of the yellow metal
blazing from it was incalculable, Price
knew. The treasure before his eyes might
rival in value the monetary gold in the
vaults of all the world.

But gold meant nothing, now, to Price
Durand. He was fighting back the mists
of madness, battling vision and delirium,
ignoring the tortures of exhaustion, of
thirst that parched his whole body. He
was seeking a girl. A girl with gay violet
eyes, whose name was Aysa.

Again he was riding on. The bloody,
W. T.—3

implacable sun rose once more, on his
right, and flooded the lava plain with
cruel light. The brief sanity of the dawn
deserted, and madness of thirst rode back
upon stinging barbs of radiation.

It was some time later in the day that
the hejin lifted its white, snake-like neck,
and looked eastward, with more of life
than it had displayed for days. Thereafter
it tried continually to turn aside. But
Price, with merciless mas’hub stick, drove
it on toward the mountain.

After a time he could make out men
standing upon the high black walls. Tiny
dolls in blue. Little more than moving
blue specks. But he thought they were
jeering at him, taunting him with Aysa’s
captivity, with their walled security upon
the cliffs. He found himself cursing them,
in a voice that was a whispering croak.

Then, again, when he was nearer the
mountain, men rode to meet him. Men
in hooded robes of blue, upon white rac¬
ing-camels. Nine of them, armed with
long, yellow-bladed pikes, and golden
yataghans.

Price drove his staggering hejin on
toward them, whispering insane curses.
He knew that they were branded with the
mark of the golden snake, that they were
the human slaves of the golden man, of
Malikar, who had stolen Aysa.

They stopped on the bare lava before
him, and awaited his coming.

With a thin arm he lifted the golden
ax that was slung to the pommel of his
saddle. Trying in vain to goad his drom¬
edary to a trot, he advanced, croaking out
the syllables of the ax-song of Iru.

And abruptly the nine whirled, as if in
consternation, before this gaunt, golden-
armored warrior upon a reeling skeleton
of a camel, and fled back toward the
mountain, and around it.

Price’s mount was still trying to turn
off toward the right, but he followed on

1706

WEIRD TALES

after the nine. They left him far behind,
but at last he rounded the sheer shoulder
of crystalline basalt, that leapt up in colos¬
sal hexagonal columns toward the bright
castle, and came to the east side of the
mountain.

T he men were again in view, sitting
still upon their camels and looking
apprehensively back, when Price came
around the mountain. They delayed a lit¬
tle longer, and then retreated again. They
rode directly into the mountain.

Again Price followed. At the top of
a short slope he saw a square black tun¬
nel in the cliff, the opening of a horizon¬
tal shaft driven straight into the basalt.

He started up the lava slope. The he jin
fell weakly to its knees, and refused to
get up again. Price got out of the sad¬
dle, took the golden ax and the yellow
oval shield, and started on afoot.

A heavy clang of metal reached his
ears, and he saw that the mouth of the
tunnel had vanished. In its place was a
square of bright gold, inlaid in the black
mountain wall.

It was madness. He knew that he had
driven himself harder than a man, by
rights, can go. He knew that he could
not longer trust his senses. Perhaps, after
all, there had been no tunnel. The men
who fled might have been figments of
delirium.

But he reeled on up the slope, in the
bright mail of Iru, with the ax and the
buckler of the old king of Anz.

He came to the yellow square in the
basaltic mountain’s flank. His eyes had
not deceived him; there had been a tun¬
nel. Golden gates had closed it. He saw
the seam down the middle, the massive
hinges on either side. Broad panels of
yellow gold, twenty feet high, smooth,
polished so that he could see his reflec¬
tion in them.

He paused an instant, wondering. Was

this Price Durand? This thin, stern fig¬
ure, with staring, sunken, glassy eyes.
With black, swollen lips. With madness
and death upon a wild and haggard face.
Was Price Durand this gaunt specter in
golden mail, carrying the arms of a king
centuries dust?

The wonder at himself came and fled,
like any idea of his desert-maddened
brain—like any idea save the one that
did not change, the single idea that he
must find Aysa.

Then his croaking voice was demand¬
ing in Arabic that the golden doors be
opened. He heard a subdued stirring be¬
yond the xanthic panels, but they did not
move.

He whispered the ax-song of Iru, and
hammered upon the mocking golden
valves with the battle-ax. And yet they
did not open.

Still he beat upon the gates, and
shrilled dry-voiced curses, and croaked
Aysa’s name. And shining silence taunt¬
ed him.

Then the dominating purpose that had
driven him through terrible days was
broken. His reason found sanctity in
madness from suffering in a land too
cruel for life. And Price was left the
creature of delirium.

13. The Golden Land

T hrough several days Price drifted
lazily back from temporary insanity
into slow awareness. He was among
Arabs. Arabs who dressed oddly, and
spoke a curious archaic dialect. They
were his friends, or rather, awe-struck
worshippers. They called him Iru.

He recalled vaguely that somewhere
he had heard this strange dialect before.
He had even heard the name Iru. But it
was several days before he remembered
the circumstances of his hearing either.

He lay upon rugs and cushions in a
long room, dark and cool, with smoothly

GOLDEN BLOOD

707

plastered mud walls. A guard of the
strange Arabs was always near him. And
a man who seemed their leader had come
many times to see him.

Yarmud was his name. A typical Arab,
tall, thin-lipped, hawk-nosed. Price
liked him. His dark eyes were straight
and piercing. He carried himself with a
simple, reserved dignity. Upon his lean,
brown face was fierce, stem pride, almost
regal.

Yarmud plainly was the ruler of these
Arabs; yet he appeared to defer to Price
as if to a greater potentate.

Price slept most of the time. He made
no exertion save to drink the water and
camel’s milk, to eat the simple fare, that
his hosts offered him where he lay. He
did not try to question them, or even to
think. The hardships of his terrible
march upon the tiger’s trail had brought
him near death, indeed. Tortured body
and fevered mind recovered but slowly.

Then one afternoon, when Yarmud
entered the room, a stately, august figure
in his long, oddly fashioned black abba,
Price awoke. His mind was suddenly
sane and clear again. He rose to meet
the old Arab, though his limbs felt yet
weak.

Old Yarmud smiled flashingly in pleas¬
ure, to see him rise.

"Salaam aleikum, Lord Iru,” he called.
And, to Price’s astonishment, he dropped
to his knees on the floor.

Price returned the immemorial desert
formula, and Yarmud rose, anxiously in¬
quiring about his health.

"Oh, I’m coming round all right,” he
assured the Arab. “How long have I been
here?”

"Five days ago your camel—or the
camel of the maiden Aysa, who went to
wake you—came to the lake. You, Iru,
were fastened upon the beast, with a hal¬
ter-rope around your body and the pom¬
mels of the saddle.”

He knew, then, that this must be the
town of El Yerim, from which Aysa had
fled. These people thought him the leg¬
endary king of Anz, awakened to free
them from bondage to the golden beings.
No great wonder that, since he had rid¬
den out of the desert with the weapons
of the ancient ruler, looking more dead
than alive.

'The mountain where Malikar lives,”
he asked, "is it near?”

Yarmud gestured with a lean arm.
"Northwest. The journey of half a day.”

Price realized then that his he jin, when
it tried to turn aside on the last day of
the ride to the mountain, had been trying
to come to the oasis here. He supposed
that, after abandoning his insane ham¬
mering upon the golden gate, he had re¬
tained consciousness enough to mount
the dromedary and tie himself to the sad¬
dle, though he recalled nothing of it.
And the loyal animal had brought him
here.

"Aysa?” he asked Yarmud, eagerly.
"Know you where she is?”

"No. She was chosen by Malikar to
go to the mountain with the snake’s trib¬
ute. She escaped, none knew how,” the
old Arab glanced at Price, with the sug¬
gestion of a wink, "and went in search
of Anz, the lost city, to waken you. You
know not where she is?”

Price’s heart went out to Yarmud, with
the certainty that he had connived at
Aysa’s escape.

"No. Malikar came, and carried her
off. He left me locked in the old cata¬
combs. I got out, and followed the tracks
of his tiger. They led to the mountain.”

"We shall free her,” said Yarmud,
"when we destroy the golden folk.”

Noticing Price’s weakness, the old
ruler soon departed, leaving him to de¬
cide one problem that had risen. These
Arabs obviously considered Price the
miraculous resurrection of their ancient

708

WEIRD TALES

king. As such, they were no doubt ready
to follow him in a war against the golden
beings.

Since he had the old king’s arms—
mail, ax and shield were beside his bed
—and since he knew the ax-song, it might
be easy enough for him to play the part.
But Price was naturally frank, straight¬
forward. Everything in him revolted at
assuming false colors.

Next morning he was feeling stronger.
And he had made his decision.

W hen Yarmud entered again, and
was about to kneel, Price stopped

him.

"Wait. You call me by the name of
the king of lost Anz. But I am not Iru.
My name is Price Durand.”

Yarmud gaped at him.

"I was bom in another land,” Price
explained. "I came here across the sea
and the mountains.”

The Arab recovered, remonstrated ex¬
citedly:

"But you must be Iru! You are tall:
you have the blue eyes, the flaming hair!
Aysa went to seek you, found you. You
yourself say that you broke from the
tomb. You come from Anz with the ax
of Iru, and whispering his ax-song.”

Price began an explanation of his life,
and the expedition into the desert, of how
he had come to meet Aysa.

"Yes, those strangers are here,” Yar¬
mud agreed. "They camp across the lake.
They take our food, and turn their camels
on our pasture, and give us no pay. They
wish my warriors to march with them
against the golden folk. But none of
them is, like you, the image of Iru.”

In the end, Price was unable to con¬
vince Yarmud that he was not the ancient
king, returned. Like Aysa, the old man
cheerfully admitted his story, but insisted
that he was Iru, born again. And though
he was unwilling to accept any theory

that he was the reincarnation of a bar¬
barian king, Price could find no effective
argument against it.

"Promise me that you will say no more
that you are not Iru,” at last Yarmud de¬
manded, shrewdly, "for my warriors are
eager to follow you against the golden
folk.”

And Price, for Aysa’s sake, was glad
enough to promise. After all, there
might be something in Yarmud’s conten¬
tion. He did not intend to trouble him¬
self further about it. The problems of
one life were proving quite enough for
him, without any gratuitous assumption
of the burdens of another.

Aysa, Price found, was the daughter
of Yarmud’s brother, who had been
sheikh of the Beni Anz, until Malikar
had done away with him two harvest-
seasons before, for refusal to send the
annual tribute to the snake. Yarmud,
then, his successor, was Aysa’s uncle—
which fact further increased Price’s liking
for the sternly proud old ruler.

Late that afternoon Price, for the first
time, left the long room in which he
had wakened.

"When Aysa escaped, Malikar de¬
manded more tribute to the snake,” Yar¬
mud told him. "A camel laden with
dates and grain, and another maiden.
The snake-men have come today to take
them.”

Price expressed desire to watch the de¬
parture of the sacrifice.

"You may,” Yarmud agreed. "But
you should dress as one of my warriors.
It would not be well for Malikar to know
you are here, before we strike.”

He arrayed Price in a long, flowing
gumbaz, or inner garment, a brown abba,
and a vivid green kafiyeh, which con¬
cealed his red hair; armed him with a
long, two-edged bronze sword and a
broad-bladed spear with a wooden shaft.

GOLDEN BLOOD

709

M ingling with a score of men simi¬
larly dressed, Price went out into
El Yerim.

He found himself upon the dusty, ir¬
regular streets of a town half concealed
in groves of date-palms. The clustered
mud buildings, low and squat, were of
the simple, massive adobe architecture
old as Babylon. The streets were desert¬
ed save for groups of Arab warriors; an
air of silent dread hung over them.

Hastening northward along the brown
adobe walls, they came out of (lie town,
upon the gravel shore of a tiny lake. Its
crystal water was boiling up in the center,
from the uprush of the great springs that
fed it—and made possible this desert
garden that Quadra y Vargas had called
"the golden land.”

Green-tufted palms lined the opposite
shore, and under them Price saw the camp
of the expedition with which he had
come into the desert. The trim khaki
drill tents of Jacob Garth and the other
whites. The black camel’s hair hejras of
the sheikh Fouad el Akmet and his Bed¬
ouins. The gray silent bulk of the army
tank. Little groups of men were standing
beneath the palms, watching; he recog¬
nized bulky Jacob Garth, and his enemy,
Joao de Castro.

Then Price’s eyes went to what the
others were watching.

Two hundred yards from where Price
and the Arab warriors stood, along the
broad bare strip of gravel between the
adobe town and the little lake, stood a
dozen white camels. Blue-robed men,
armed with shimmering yellow yata¬
ghans, sat upon five of them, holding the
halter-ropes of the others. One was
loaded with wicker hampers; that, he
supposed, was part of the tribute.

A thin, wailing shriek of agonized
grief rose among the low mud houses.
And the remaining six snake-men came
into view, two of them dragging between

them a young girl whose hands were
lashed behind her. Behind followed a
haggard woman, screaming and beating
her flat breasts.

The girl seemed submissive, paralyzed
with fear. She made no struggle as she
was lifted to one of the mounted men,
who laid her inert body across the saddle
before him. The other men leapt upon
their camels, and wheeled them, almost
running down the grief-stricken woman.

Price ran forward impulsively as the
eleven started around the lake, one of
them leading the laden camel. Yarmud
gripped his arm, stopped him.

"Wait, Iru,” he whispered. "You are
not yet strong from your ride. Nor are
we ready for battle. If we interfere,
Malikar will come and bathe El Yerim
in blood. And Vekyra—she will hunt
the human game! Wait, until we are
ready.”

Price stopped, realizing the wisdom of
the sheikh’s words. But hot rage filled
him, the burning resentment he always
felt when he saw the weak abused by the
strong. And cold determination filled
him to destroy utterly the golden beings
—be they human or living metal—that
had subjected this race to such base slav¬
ery. Before, he might have been satis¬
fied with the rescue of Aysa. Now he
was filled with a stem and passionless re¬
solve to obliterate the beings who had
taken her from him.

14. The Menace in the Mirage

T he Price Durand who rode around
the little lake, five days later, and into
the farengi camp, with Yarmud and two-
score warriors of the Beni Anz, was not
the same restless wanderer who had set
out with the expedition from the Arabian
Sea, so many weary weeks before.

He felt completely recovered, now,,
from the suffering of his last cruel Jour-

710

WEIRD TALES

ney, and filled with a burning impatience
to test his strength with Malikar that
would brook no longer delay.

The desert sun had burned him to the
brown of an Arab, had drawn every super¬
fluous drop of moisture from his body.
He was hard, lean, wiry. A new iron
strength was in him, bred of the desert
he had fought and mastered, a tireless en¬
durance.

His spirit was hardened as much as his
supple body. He had joined Jacob Garth,
not in quest of gold, but a restless mal¬
content, a weary sportsman in search of a
new game, a world-rover driven by vague
and obscure longings, by indefinable de¬
sire for strange vistas.

In the Rub’ A1 Khali he had found
Aysa, strange, lovely girl, fugitive from
weird peril. He had fled with her across
the shifting sands . . . loved her in the
hidden garden of a lost city . . . lost her
to a power that he did not yet understand.

Now he was determined to find and
free the girl, to blot out the beings that
had taken her. It was as if the desert
life had crystallized all his restless energy
into a single driving power that would
yield to no opposition, admit no failure.

He knew that very real and immediate
danger faced the attempt. The powers
of the golden beings, as he had glimpsed
them, were vast and ominous, appalling.
But it was not in Price to consider the con¬
sequences of defeat, save as challenge to
another battle.

Jacob Garth came out of his tent, to
meet Price and his bodyguard. Always
an enigma, the huge man was unchanged.
His puffy, tallow-white face was blandly
placid, mask-like, as ever; pale, cold blue
eyes still peered blankly and unfeelingly
from above his tangle of curly red beard-

He stopped, and surveyed Price for a
time, and then his voice rang out, richly

sonorous, in casual greeting, free from
hint of surprize:

"Hullo, Durand.”

"Good morning, Garth.”

Price looked down from his hejin—
Yarmud’s gift—at the gross, bovinely
calm man in faded, dusty khaki. He felt
the cold eyes taking in his gleaming chain
mail, his bright shield, the yellow ax.

"Where’ve you been, Durand?” Garth
boomed suddenly.

Price met his searching, unreadable
gaze. "We’ve a good deal to talk over,
Garth. Suppose we adjourn somewhere
out of the sun?’’

"Will you come in my tent, over here
under the palms?”

Price nodded. He dismounted and
gave the halter-rope of his camel to one
of Yarmud’s men. With a word to the
old sheikh, he followed Jacob Garth to
the tent, entered before him. Garth mo¬
tioned to a blanket spread on the gravel
floor; they squatted on it.

The big man stared at him, silently,
rather grimly, then spoke suddenly:

"You understand, Durand, that you
aren’t returning to your old place as lead¬
er of this expedition. I don’t know just
how the men will want to dispose of you,
since your—desertion,”

"That affair was revolt against my au¬
thority!” cried Price. "And against every
law of human decency. I’m no desert¬
er!” He caught himself. "But we needn’t
go into that. And your men won’t be
called upon to dispose of me.”

"You appear to be in cahoots with the
natives,” Garth observed.

"They have accepted me as a leader.
We are planning an attack on the moun¬
tain of the golden folk. I came to see if
you would care to join the expedition.”

Jacob Garth seemed more interested.
"They will actually follow you?” he de¬
manded. "Against their golden gods?”

GOLDEN BLOOD

711

"I think so."

"Then perhaps we can come to some
agreement.” The deep voice was suave
as ever, colorless. "We’ve been here for
weeks. The men are rested, ready for
action. We’ve been drilling. And scout¬
ing over the country.

"We’d have moved on the mountain
already, but the natives refused to join
me. And it appeared bad strategy to ad¬
vance and leave them in control of the
water. We didn’t trust them.”

"I’m sure,” Price said, "of the entire
loyalty of the Beni Anz—or at least of
Yarmud, the sheikh—to me. I propose
that we join forces—until the golden peo¬
ple are smashed.”

"And then?”

"You and the men can help yourselves
to the golden palace. All I want is Aysa’s
safety.”

"You mean the woman you took away
from de Castro?”

Price nodded.

"Well, Joao is going to have something
to say about her. I promised him his
choice of any women we take. But, for
my part, I accept your terms.”

"We’re allies, then?”

"Until we have broken the power of
the golden folk.”

Jacob Garth extended his white, puffy
hand. Price took it, and was amazed
again at the crushing strength beneath the
smooth soft skin.

A t sunrise the next morning a ver-
- itable army was winding through
the palm groves of El Yerim, from the
camp and the town beside the tiny lake.
The clattering tank led the van. Behind
rode men on camels, in a close, double
column.

Jacob Garth and swart, sloe-eyed Joao
de Castro, at the head of the farengi, a
score of hard-bitten adventurers, their

pack animals laden with machine-guns,
the mountain artillery, Stokes mortars,
and high explosives.

The sheikh Fouad el Akmet riding be¬
fore his two-score nakhawilah or ren¬
egades, who were proudly girt with glit¬
tering cartridge belts and carrying new
Lebel rifles.

Price Durand, resplendent in the gold¬
en mail of Iru, riding beside Yarmud at
the head of nearly five hundred eager
warriors of the Beni Anz.

As the interminable line of fighting-
men crept out of the green palm groves
of the fertile valley, to the desolate, fire-
born plateau, they came in view of Hajar
]ehannum, or Verl, as the Beni Anz
named the mountain—a steep-walled, ba¬
saltic butte, the core of an ancient volca¬
no, crowned with a towered, palace ablaze
with myriad splintering gleams of white
and gold.

An exultant cheer rolled back along the
columns, as each successive group came
within view of the mountain, with the
bright promise of its coronal of marble
and yellow metal.

Price’s heart lifted. Involuntarily he
urged his he jin to a faster gait, fondled
the oaken helve of Korlu, the great ax.
Aysa must be a prisoner within that scin¬
tillating castle. Aysa, the fair, brave
girl of the desert.

"Great is the day!” Yarmud shouted
beside him, kicking his own camel to
make it keep pace. "Before sunset the
castle of Verl is ours. At last the golden
folk shall die-”

Fear stilled his voice. Silently, pale-
faced, he pointed at the bleak mountain
still fifteen miles away. The whole long
column had abruptly halted; a dry whis¬
per of terror raced along it.

"The shadow of the golden folk!”
came Yarmud’s fear-roughened voice.

A brilliant fan of light was lifting into

712

WEIRD TALES

the indigo sky ahead. Narrow rays of
rose and topaz mingled in an inverted,
splendid pyramid of flame. The apex of
the pyramid touched the highest golden
tower. The colored rays were up-flung
from the castle.

Above the fan of saffron and rosy glory
a picture appeared. Vague at first, loom-
ing gigantic as if projected on the dome
of the blue heavens, it swiftly took form,
color, reality.

A gigantic snake, vast as a cloud, coiled
in the air above the mountain. A heap
of yellow coils, the evil head uplifted
upon a slender gleaming aureate column.
A serpent of gold. Each brilliant scale
glinted like polished metal. The head
dropped upon the upmost coil, and the
snake’s eyes, glittering black, insidious,
looked down upon the halted, fearful col¬
umns.

Beside the serpent was a woman—the
same woman. Price knew, that he had
seen upon the tiger, in the mirage above
the mountain pass. A yellow coil, thick
as her body, was looped about her feet,
and she half reclined against the next, an
arm caressingly over it.

The woman’s body was yellow as the
snake, and it had something of the ser¬
pent’s slender, sinuous grace. A short,
tight-fitting tunic of green encased it, hid¬
ing no undulating line. Red-golden,
flowing loose and abundant, her hair fell
over her yellow shoulders.

The woman looked down from the sky,
a mockingly malefic smile upon her oval,
exotic face. Her full lips, crimsoned,
were voluptuous and cruel; the lids of her
piquantly slanted eyes dark-edged; the
shadowed orbs themselves tawny-green.

Price watched those greenish, oblique
eyes rove the columns, questingly, and
fasten suddenly upon himself. The
woman, apparently, saw him as plainly as
he did her, whatever the strange agency

of her projection. She stared down at
him, boldly. In her gaze was a curious
intimacy.

Then puzzlement and vague alarm
came into the tawny eyes, as they ab¬
sorbed the golden mail, the oval buckler,
the yellow ax. But still they held a taunt¬
ing challenge, an enigmatic promise, too,
oddly disturbing. The slim yellow body
relaxed against the thick, heaped golden
coils of the snake. Reddened fingers
shook out tire ruddy-golden hair until it
rippled in shimmering cascades.

Price was swept with a surge of fierce
desire for that full-curved, sinuous body.
He felt swift will to meet the taunting
mockery in the greenish, slanted eyes.
Lust, not love. Nothing of the spirit,
nothing reverent.

He laughed at the woman, derisively.
She flung back the silken-gold net of hair,
abruptly, and anger flashed in the tawny
eyes. No doubt that she saw him.

He looked away from her, at the snake.
Even by comparison with the looming
shadow of the woman it was large, its
golden-scaled body thicker than her own.
Like an ominous cloud, it hung in the
sky above the black mountain, above the
outspread fan of arrowed rays. Flat, tri¬
angular, ugly, its great head watched.

Its glittering eyes were terrible; black
with a hint of purple, unwinking, aflame
with cold light. Price’s pulse slowed
with instinctive fear as he met them, icy
needles danced along his spine. The eyes
of the snake were wells of cold evil,
agleam with sinister wisdom older than
mankind. They were hypnotic.

Price had wondered how a' rabbit feels,
frozen in fascinated trance, as the stalk¬
ing snake writhes near. In that moment
he knew. He felt the cold, deadly shock
of resistless, malign power, intangible, in¬
explicable, yet terrifyingly real.

With an effort he dragged his gaze

GOLDEN BLOOD

713

away from those motionless, hypnotic
orbs. His body, to his surprize, was tense,
covered with chill sweat.

Looking bade along the columns, he
saw that a strange quietness had fallen,
a silence almost of death. Every man
was gazing fascinated into the mirage.
Clatter of voices was stilled. No outcry
rose, even of wonder or fear.

"Attention!” he shouted. Then, in
Arabic: "Don’t look at the snake. Turn
away. Look back toward the oasis. The
snake has no power unless you watch it.”

A deep sigh beside him. And Yar-
mud’s low voice:

"The snake threatens. We will win no
easy victory. Its eyes can destroy us.”

"Let’s go on.” Price urged his camel
forward.

“Then sing the ax-song. The men are
afraid.”

Price lifted his voice in the battle-song
of the ancient barbarian king whose armor
he wore. A wave of cheering rolled back
along the column, at first feeble and un¬
certain, but rising in volume.

And the long line crept forward again.

15. Mirrors of Peril

A s the hours went by and the camel-
. mounted columns wound onward,
the weird mirage hung ominously in the
sky ahead, tawny-green eyes of the golden
woman and purple-black orbs of the
snake gazing down. At times the phe¬
nomenon appeared curiously near. It
seemed to draw steadily away, as the expe¬
dition advanced, keeping a uniform dis¬
tance.

Price speculated upon possible scientif¬
ic explanations of it, without arriving at
any satisfactory conclusion. The mirage,
he knew, must be simply the colossal re¬
flection of real beings, produced by the
application of optical laws unknown to
the outside world.

The hypnotic or paralytic effect of the
snake’s eyes was even more puzzling. He
supposed that the golden reptile merely
possessed the slight power of fascination
of the ordinary snake, increased in pro¬
portion to its size, and perhaps intensified
or amplified in the same manner as its
body was magnified in the mirage.

The men remained subdued and fright¬
ened. The courage of Fouad and his Bed¬
ouins was maintained only by their con¬
fidence in the tank and the other invin¬
cible weapons of the farengi band. The
Beni Anz were similarly sustained by a
faith in Price as a supernatural deliverer.

Many times the column lagged. Price
and Jacob Garth and Yarmud rode con¬
tinually back and forth, encouraging the
men, warning them not to look into the
maddening mirage hanging ahead, where
the snake’s eyes gleamed with the cold
and deadly fascination of ancient and sin¬
ister wisdom.

As they drew near the mountain, Price
sent out scouts.

F ive miles from the black, basaltic
mass, the head of the column reached
the edge of a shallow wadi, a valley a
thousand yards across. Three scouts, upon
fleet he jins, were half across its level floor,
when the low black lava-crowned hills
above the opposite slope burst into men¬
acing life.

Scores of blue-clad men appeared from
nowhere, dragging to the hill-crest great,
silvery, ellipsoid mirrors that flickered in
the sun; mirrors supported upon metal
frames, like the one that had slain the
Arab Hamed with an invisible ray of
cold, in the mountain pass.

Broad bright ellipsoids wavered and
shimmered in the sun. Queer flashes of
violet darted from them, strangely pain¬
ful to the eye.

At first appearance of the enemy, the

714

[WEIRD TALES

three scouts turned and dashed madly
back, but not swiftly enough to escape the
mirrors. The camel in the lead stumbled
and fell. Rider and mount shattered,
splintered, when they struck the ground,
bodies suddenly chilled to the point of
brittleness. The fragments quickly were
silvered with frost.

An instant later the second man went
down, in a swirl of snow-flakes. Then
the third, with a crash like breaking glass.

Fear swept the column on the low lava
hills above the wadi. The brooding men¬
ace of the mirage had been endurable
because it was distant, half unreal. These
mirrors of cold were as terrifyingly
strange, and they were immediately dan¬
gerous. Bedouins and Beni Anz stirred
uneasily, but at sight of Price and Jacob
Garth unmoved ahead of them, held their
ground.

Defense was swiftly organized. Garth
boomed rapid orders. The Krupp moun¬
tain guns, the four Hotchkiss machine-
guns, the two Stokes mortars, were quick¬
ly unpacked, mounted in covered positions
along the hilltop.

The sheikh Fouad El Akmet’s men
were gathered behind the tank to follow
it in the first charge. The four hundred
and eighty warriors of the Beni Anz,
armed, save for a hundred archers, only
with long swords and spears, were held
for the moment in reserve, in the rear.

The two little cannons were soon thud¬
ding regularly, sweeping the opposite
slope of the wadi with screaming shrap¬
nel. The Hotchkiss guns broke into rat¬
tling music, and snipers, flung prone,
nursed barking rifles.

A few minutes longer the mirrors
flashed with eye-searing violet. Little
swirls of frost appeared in the air about
the gunners, and several men fell, shiver¬
ing, temporarily paralyzed. But the range
was apparently too great for effective use

of the mirrors. They were dragged back
beyond the lava ridge, out of view again.

Price and Jacob Garth, near the guns,
scanned the opposite side of the wadi
through binoculars. A dozen still blue
forms were sprawled there, victims of bul¬
lets and shrapnel splinters. But the liv¬
ing had vanished.

"Our move,” Garth observed, serenely
bland as ever. "Can't afford to leave the
initiative up to them. And the ammuni¬
tion for the Krupps won’t hold out all
day.”

He turned to boom orders.

The gray-armored tank lumbered over
the crest of the hill. At top speed it rum¬
bled down the slope and clanked across
the wadi’s stony floor, machine-guns ham¬
mering. Behind it raced Fouad’s Bedou¬
ins, with their new Lebel rifles.

In undisciplined but splendid charge
the Arabs dashed after the tank, throw¬
ing up their rifles to fire in headlong
career. They were half-way across the
valley when the mirrors of cold were
pushed back to the hill before them, from
concealed trenches.

One Arab fell with his camel into a
frosty heap of shattered fragments.
Another, then two more, went down in
clouds of glittering ice. Then the tank
was abruptly white, gleaming argent.

A few seconds it lumbered on. Price
hoped that its armor had been proof
against the ray; remembered how nearly
he had been frozen in it, back in the Jebel
Harb. The roaring motor faltered, died.
The tank veered, turned broadside to the
enemy, stood silent and motionless, a sil¬
very ghost of itself. He felt quick regret
for old Sam Sorrows.

Though the Krupps and machine-guns
were still raining death upon the blue-
dad crews of the mirrors, the tank’s fail¬
ure shattered the morale of the Arabs.
Wheeling their radng dromedaries, they

GOLDEN BLOOD

715

plunged back in mad retreat And two
more fell as they fled.

Disaster was unpleasantly near, Price
realized. The proudest weapon of the
jarengi had fallen a quick victim to the
mirrors of cold. Another such reverse
would set the Arabs in panic flight.

"Want to try a charge with your na¬
tives, Durand?” asked Garth. "That’s
about the only chance. We’ll be helpless
when the ammunition’s gone.”

Price looked across the wadi with nar¬
rowed eyes. It would cost many lives to
gain the opposite hill; but, if they retreat¬
ed now, the Beni Anz would never find
courage to advance again.

"All right,” he told Garth.

"Good luck. I’ll keep up the fire.”
The big man took his hand in that puffy
paw that was so surprizingly strong.

Five minutes later Price rode down
into the wadi, swinging the golden ax
and raising his voice in the barbaric chant
of Iru. Behind his racing hejin came the
Beni Anz warriors, in long, irregular
lines and scattered groups, scattered pur¬
posely.

H alf a mile ahead was the low, lava-
crowned hill, glittering with half a
score of huge, spinning mirrors. Blue-
robed men crowded about them, many
falling beneath Garth’s fire, but others
springing from the hidden trenches to re¬
place them.

Camels' feet beat upon the stony ground
with a vast, hollow thunder. Eager, ex¬
ultant cries rang out, repeated phrases of
the ax-song: "Kill . . . Korlu the red
doom . . . Drinker of life-blood . . .
Keeper of death-gate.”

Ellipsoid mirrors swayed and spun,
flashed painfully violet.

Price did not look back. Shouting the
ax-song, he charged straight on; but he
heard the screams of terror, and sharp,

splintering crashes, like the shattering of
myriad panes of glass—the sound of fro¬
zen men and camels, smashing to frag¬
ments on the rocks.

A blast of icy air struck his face, misty
with floating ice-crystals — breath-taking.
A freezing ray had come perilously near.

He rode on. The wild drumming of
feet behind did not falter.

At last Price’s dromedary was leaping
up the hill, toward the nearest mirror.
The broad, shimmering ellipsoid swung
toward him—a six-foot sheet of silvery
metal, mounted upon a delicate, elaborate
mechanism.

Two blue-robes were behind it, the glit¬
tering brand of the snake upon their fore¬
heads. As one turned the mirror, another
manipulated a little knob.

Price saw a violet glow flush the argent
metal.

Then he had leapt his camel upon the
machine. It collapsed, with a rending
and crashing of metal. The hejin fell
sprawling. Price sprang clear of the sad¬
dle, plunged for the two blue-robes with
the great ax.

It all took place with the disordered
swiftness of a dream.

One moment, a dozen blue-clad snake-
men were surrounding Price, with wicked,
double-curved yellow yataghans. The
next, the charging Beni Anz were rolling
about him like a resistless wave.

Fire from Krupps and machine-guns
had ceased as they neared the ridge. And
the mirrors of cold ceased to function as
their crews were ridden down by camel-
mounted warriors.

Savage battle raged for a few minutes
along the hilltop, with no quarter given.
Two hundred of the Beni Anz had fallen
upon the wadi floor, but those who sur¬
vived to reach the hill exacted a terrible
price for their fallen comrades.

A little time of utter confusion. Blue

716

WEIRD TALES

snake-men rallying about their mirrors.
Camels crashing through them, kicking,
slashing with yellow tusks. Men and
camels falling, before arrow and yata¬
ghan and spear.

Price, on foot, held his own. The great
ax drank blood, and the barbaric song of
Iru still rang out.

Then, abruptly, amazingly, the battle
was won.

Along the crest of the hill stood the
great mirrors, twisted, wrecked. Around
them, and in the shallow, lava-walled
trenches behind them, lay motionless,
gory blue-clad bodies — the snake-men
were down, to the last man. Here and
there were camels, dead or dying. The
survivors of the Beni Anz, no more than
half the number that had begun the
charge, were swiftly stripping the dead,
loading camels with their loot.

Behind lay the grim black wadi floor,
scattered with white, shattered heaps that
had been men and camels, the silvery,
silent tank among them.

Price looked toward the mountain.

Five miles away across the bleak, dark
desolation of the lava fields rose its for¬
bidding basaltic masses; cyclopean black
pillars and columns, soaring up two thou¬
sand feet, to the glittering splendor of
snowy marble and burnished gold that
was the palace of the yellow people.

From the dome of the highest gorgeous
tower yet spread the fan of lanced rays of
rose and topaz light. Above the rays, the
weird mirage still hung. Braving the ser¬
pent’s hypnotic eyes, Price ventured
another glance at it.

The yellow woman, still beside the
giant snake, still caressing it, met his
glance with a mocking, derisive smile,
and shrugged her slim yellow shoulders,
as much as to say: "Perhaps you have
won, but what of it?”

"Malikar!" wailed one of the Arabs in

sudden terror. "Malikar comes! On the
golden tiger!”

Dropping his eyes from the mirage,
Price saw the yellow tiger running across
the lava plain from the mountain. A
gigantic beast, fully the size of an ordi¬
nary elephant, it carried the ebon how-
dah, with Malikar, the golden man, seated
in it.

Still several miles away, the giant cat
was covering distance at a surprizing rate.
Obviously terrified, the Beni Anz warriors
frantically loaded the last of their plun¬
der, and began leading their camels back
into the wadi.

16. The Strange Eyes of the Snake

I T was now high noon. Merciless white
sun-flame drove down upon the lifeless
volcanic plain beyond the ridge, across
which the yellow tiger was running, and
beat upon the rugged lava slopes below
the towering, basaltic cone of Hajar Je-
hannum. No wind stirred; the air trem¬
bled with stinging heat.

After a few moments’ thought, Price
decided to retire into the wadi he had just
crossed at such expense in human lives,
to await Malikar’s coming. He did not
like to retreat before a single man. But
he was not sure that Malikar was a man;
he wanted to get beneath the cover of
Jacob Garth’s guns.

Midway across the stony floor, where
the grisly piles of white were now turning
red, he stopped the Arabs, waited, dis¬
patching a note to Jacob Garth to inform
him of the victory on the hill and warn
him of Malikar’s coming.

Very soon the yellow tiger appeared
upon the hill, among the wrecked mir¬
rors of cold and the bodies of the blue-
robed dead. For a time the gigantic beast
stood there, Malikar sitting in the how-
ddh, robed in red, staring about him.
Then the Krupp guns began to fire

GOLDEN BLOOD

717

again. Price heard the whine of shrapnel
above his head. And he saw white smoke
burst up near the motionless tiger, where
high explosive shells were falling.

Then a strange thing happened.

Malikar stood up in the howdah, turned
back to face the mirage still hanging in
the sky above the black mountain. He
flung out his arms in a gesture of com¬
mand.

The yellow woman turned, and ap¬
peared to speak to the snake.

Gigantic, incredible, bright scales glit¬
tering metallic, xanthic yellow, the great
serpent moved in the sky. The broad
flat wedge of its head was lifted high,
upon the slender, shining gold column of
its neck. To and fro it swayed, slowly,
regularly, purple-black eyes hypnotically
a-glitter.

Price tried to draw his eyes away from
the snake—and could not! Strange and
coldly evil, those swaying, hypnotic orbs
riveted him with baleful fascination. His
whole body was paralyzed. He could
scarcely breathe. A throbbing oppression
was in his head; his throat was dry, con¬
stricted; his limbs were cold.

Sounds of firing ceased, from the guns
across the wadi; Price knew that the others
had also been seized by this incredible pa¬
ralysis.

Brilliant purple-black, the serpent’s
eyes shone with cold force of utter evil.
Dark wisdom filled them—wisdom older
than the race of man. Overwhelming,
resistless will.

Price began a battle to move. Deadly
paralysis claimed him. A dull weight
rested on his brain; his head swam. Suf¬
focation choked him. Coldness crept up
his limbs, prickling deadness.

But he was not going to surrender. He
wasn’t going to let himself be hypnotized
by a snake. Not even a golden snake, in

a mirage of madness. A matter of wills.
He would not be mastered!

His head was turning, involuntarily, to
follow the swaying serpent’s orbs. He
tensed the muscles of his neck, struggled
to keep his head motionless, to turn his
eyes downward.

Then his whole body tensed. He had
the incredible sensation that the snake
realized his resistance, was increasing the
hypnotic power that chained him. Price
set his jaw, jerked his head down.

All his will went into the effort. And
a cord of evil seemed to snap. He was
free. Weak, trembling, with a feeling of
nausea in the pit uf his stomach, but free!
He dared himself to look back at the
snake’s eyes. And the dread paralysis
did not return. He had proved his
mastery.

Price turned, reeling uncertainly. He
saw a sickening thing.

Standing about him were two-score
Beni Anz warriors, afoot, as he was. All
were frozen in rigid paralysis, staring up
into the mirage. Mute, helpless terror
was on their white, sweat-beaded faces.
Their eyes were glazed, they breathed
slowly, gaspingly. And Malikar was
murdering them.

The gold giant had dismounted f-rom
the yellow tiger, which stood two-score
yards away. Swiftly he was passing from
one to another of the motionless, para¬
lyzed men, methodically stabbing each in
the breast with a long, two-edged sword.

The men stood in tense paralysis, star¬
ing at the fatal mirage, heads turning a
little to follow the swaying, hypnotic
eyes of the snake. Helpless, naked hor¬
ror was on their faces; they were unaware
of Malikar, so near.

The yellow man worked swiftly, driv¬
ing his blade with dexterous skill into un¬
guarded breasts, withdrawing it with a

718

WEIRD TALES

jerk as he pushed his victims backward, to
sprawl with red blood welling out.

Outraged, half sick with the brutal hor¬
ror of it, Price shouted something, sprang
toward him.

Malikar turned suddenly, his red robe
dripping with new blood. A moment he
was startled, motionless, with fear unmis¬
takable in his shallow, tawny eyes. Then
he leapt to meet Price, brandishing his
reeking blade.

Price met the sword-thrust with the
golden buckler, and swung the ax. The
yellow man sprang back; but the ax-blade
grazed his shoulder, the bloody sword
clattered from his fingers.

Price ran forward over the rocky
ground, to follow up his advantage. Luck
was against him. A loose stone turned
under his foot; he stumbled, went heavily
to his knees.

As he staggered back to his feet, Mali-
kar leapt away, picked up a heavy block
of lava, flung it at him. Price tried in
vain to dodge. He felt the impact of the
missile against his head; crimson flame
seemed to burst from it, flaring through
all his brain.

W HEN Price groaned and sat up it
was just past sunset. The cool
wind that had roused him was blowing
down from the black mass of the moun¬
tain across the bleak lava flows north¬
ward. In the fading, rosy light the gold-
and-white palace above the frowning
walls was a splendorous coronal. And the
mirage was gone.

Price woke where Malikar had felled
him. The wadi’s stony floor was red with
piles of thawed flesh and shattered bone.
Near him were the score of men Malikar
had stabbed as they were helpless in that
dread fascination of the snake, dark abbas
and white kafiyehs scarlet-stained.

He was alone with the dead. Malikar

was gone, with the tiger. And the Beni
Anz, and Fouad’s men, and Jacob Garth’s.
But the little tank still stood there, where
the ray of cold had stopped it, in the mid¬
dle of the wadi.

With a dull and heavy sense of despair,
Price realized that once again Malikar had
defeated him. Bitterly he recalled the
stone that had turned under his foot. The
Durand luck had failed again.

His allies must have retreated in mad
haste; perhaps they had broken the spell
of the mirage, even as he had done, and
fled. The abandonment of the tank, of
himself and the possessions of the men
about him, was proof enough of flight.

Not again, after this reverse, would the
Beni Anz follow him, he knew. "Iru”
would be discredited. And Aysa—lovely
Aysa of the many moods, serious and
smiling, demure and gay, strange, daring
fugitive of the sand-waste—was still
locked in the mountain fortress ahead,
more than ever hopelessly lost.

A missile flicked past Price’s head and
clattered startlingly on the bare lava. He
heard the clatter of running feet, a hoarse
shout of rage and hate. Still dazed, stiff
of movement, Price staggered to his feet,
turned to face the assailant who had
crept up behind him in the twilight.

Wicked yellow yataghan upraised, the
man was charging at him in the dusk, a
dozen yards away. A tall Arab in a
queerly hooded robe of blue. He must,
like Price, be a survivor of the battle. He
limped as he ran, or hopped grotesquely.
And one side of his face was red horror,
from which a wild eye, miraculously un¬
harmed, glared with fanatic hate. On his
high forehead was the gleaming yellow
brand of a coiled serpent.

What Price Durand found In the golden city
makes an amazing tale that will hold your breath¬
less Interest. You can not afford to miss this sensa¬
tional narrative, in the July WEIRD TALES.

^ j K
iron Man

By PAUL ERNST

A huge mechanical man, twenty feet in height,
runs amuck in the city streets, leaving panic
terror and dreadful death in its wake

"The gigantic pincers opened wide like
the jaws of a steam shovel. They
closed —”

M Y EMOTIONS as I Stepped into
Amos Klegg’s laboratory that
night were half of awe and half
of amusement. Which was not an un¬
natural mixture: Klegg is half to be re¬
spected for his really colossal scientific
achievements and half to be grinned at
for his vanity.

Vain? I have never known any one
more vain! With a harmless sort of van-

719

720

WEIRD TALES

ity, I’ll admit. Perpetually the showman,
he must stage-set every denouement, pre¬
sent it always in the most spectacular
light.

For the past eight months he had ap¬
parently forgotten my existence, though
I was his closest friend. Then, that morn¬
ing, he had telephoned and demanded
that I come that very evening to "Oh!”
and “Ah!” over his latest brain-child.
Demanded! That was the word. Klegg
never invited; like royalty he took one’s
presence for granted.

Now here I was, waiting in his labora¬
tory for him to come and parade his lat¬
est scientific marvel before my properly
startled eyes.

I strolled through the great work¬
room. I was not impatient for him to
come. Few had the privilege of being
admitted to that enormous room; and
there were plenty of weird and interest¬
ing things to look at. The room itself
was weird-looking—two stories high,
lighted by hanging electric bulbs that il¬
luminated apparatus and work-benches
well enough but left the high ceiling to
soar dimly into shadow like the roof of
a cave. A magician’s cave, in a way;
some of Klegg’s performances certainly
smacked of magic.

I noticed a great dim shape at the far¬
ther end of the laboratory. It was veiled
under canvas, for all the world like a
gigantic statue hidden from common eyes
in a sculptor’s workshop. Had Klegg
gone in for art?

I started toward it, remarking as I
went on the odd proportions of whatever
figure it was beneath the canvas. The
proportions were vaguely human. Heroic
in size—-the top of the cascading canvas
scraped the roof twenty feet above the
floor—whatever was beneath stuck out
here and there as if possessed of such
things as shoulders and head and torso.

I got a third of the way down the long
room toward it when I stopped with a
queer sensation of being watched. You
know how it is. You are in a place alone,
windows shuttered and locked (Klegg
always kept his that way because his lab¬
oratory was on the ground level), no one
there but yourself—and yet you feel as if
unseen eyes were on you.

So strong was the feeling that I called
aloud: "Klegg, are you here?”

There was no answer. The door
through which Klegg’s servant had ad¬
mitted me was dosed. Klegg was cer¬
tainly not in that laboratory; nor was any
one else save myself. Yet I was being
watched. I'd have sworn to it.

Forgetting for the moment the myste¬
rious, canvas-shrouded figure, I started
slowly to tour the place. I looked under
tables, behind any equipment big enough
to offer cover for a marauder. I went
into the alcove containing the wash-
stand. I darted out again, thinking to
surprize some one in the act of running
for the door.

No one. I was utterly alone.

The inexplicable feeling began to give
me the creeps. I remember wishing with
almost childish panic that Klegg would
hurry up and join me. I think I would
have left the place had I not hated to
display such weakness even to myself.

I did start for the switchboard over
by the door, however. I was going to
turn on more lights—all the lights—to
get rid of that nasty, creepy feeling that
eyes were following my every move.

And then I did get a jolt. A paralyz¬
ing one! For I located the eyes.

Beside the switchboard was a plate-
glass case about a foot square and two
feet high. It was standing on a table.
And in it, just under the top, were the
eyes.

Two eyes, undeniably human, glared at
W. T.—3

THE IRON MAN

721

me unblinkingly from the case. Unblink-
ingly? They could not have glared in any
other way, for they had no eyelids to
blink with. Nor were they set in eye-
sockets, or surrounded by a skull. Just
two naked eyeballs perched there behind
glass and staring with dilated pupils into
my own eyes—as though piercing clear
to my soul.

W ell, I got over the jolt a bit, and
began to investigate. I started by
switching on a bulb that hung over the
table for the special purpose of illuminat¬
ing the case.

Hie case, I saw then, was full of a col¬
orless fluid. And there was more, soaking
placidly in the fluid, than a pair of eye¬
balls.

There was a brain behind the eyeballs,
for one thing. A naked human brain, look¬
ing like the specimens you see pickled in
glass jars at a medical school. The brain
rested on a glass shelf near the top of the
case. The eyes projected from the fore¬
part of the wrinkled, grayish lump on
two stalks that resembled antennas. The
stalks, I recognized, were the optic nerves.

Leading down from the brain, like
small trailing power cables, were a score
or more of grayish-white, elastic-looking
tubes. These, as they descended, branched
into four main tubes. And these main
tubes were finally rooted in—a human
heart!

Yes, there was no mistaking it. Lying
on the floor of the case, like a pallid mush¬
room growth tinged with red, was a
human heart. And what was more—it
was beating.

Steadily, effortlessly, seventy or so to
the minute, it pulsated before my gaze.
Beat, beat, beat. And with every beat a
perceptible impulse traveled along the
elastic tubes on the right (why, they
were human arteries!) to the brain rest-
W. T.—4

ing above on the glass shelf. The brain
itself pulsed faintly in unison; till the
whole affair gave one a conviction that
here was actual, though incredible, life.

A locomotive without its train. A
power-house without its factory. A human
heart and brain without a body; but cer¬
tainly appearing to be alive and in fit
shape to guide a body should one be pre¬
sented.

Meanwhile, the staring, almost hyp¬
notic eyes on their antennas of optic
nerves. . . .

"What do you think of it, Cleave?”

I jumped a foot, and only half suc¬
ceeded in repressing a yell. Klegg had
come in behind me, unheard, and had
spoken without warning.

"You might cough, or something, just
to let a man know you’re around,” I said
reproachfully.

He smiled. "I see it has impressed
you, at least.”

"It certainly has,” I replied. "Tell me
—is the thing alive, or isn’t it?”

"It is not, of course. You ought to
know that. It’s dead as mutton. But it
has provided me with a lot of entertain¬
ment and a great deal of new knowledge
concerning automatic reflex nerve-action.
For instance, look.”

He lit a match and held the flame close
to the naked, appalling eyes. ' Watch the
pupils.”

I watched them—black, dilated holes
in twin rings of dark brown. And as I
watched, they contracted from the bright¬
ness of the match flame. It was uncanny.

"Yet you say it’s dead,” I exclaimed.

"Certainly. That is, as brain and heart
it is dead. The individual cells are alive,
and they are still governed by the myste¬
rious automatic influence we call reflex
action.”

He dropped the match stub to the
floor and stepped on it.

722

WEIRD TALES

"Looks impossible, doesn’t it?” he
commented. "Yet it is quite simple, real¬
ly. Any kind of heart can be kept beat¬
ing indefinitely if immersed in a neutral
salt solution—sodium, calcium and potas¬
sium salts—and nourished with a little
sugar. It’s a common experiment. But
I don’t think any one has ever before
taken both heart and brain from a newly
killed human being, connected the two
organs with fresh veins and arteries, and
kept them functioning as one system.”

I stared down at him—a little man, he
was—dark as a Spaniard, with bristly
black hair and eyebrows, and burning
black eyes.

"But why the eyeballs?” I demanded,
glancing again with a shudder at the sin¬
ister, staring orbs poised on their nerve-
stalks like marbles.

"To observe more effectively the way
the organs react to artificial nerve stim¬
uli,” Klegg said, with a carelessness that
didn’t fool me for a minute: he was
pleased as a child at the way his experi¬
ment worked.

"By the way,” he went on, "apart
from its scientific interest, that brain is
a most arresting lump of meat. It’s the
brain of Tuzloff. You’ve heard of him?”

My eyes opened at that. Heard of
him? Who has not! Bomber, murderer,
outlaw, he had left a grim trail of death
behind him for two years, until an out¬
raged state had finally captured and exe¬
cuted him. He had died screaming hate
at the world. No one knew where he had
come from, but every one knew his mad
history. Tuzloff! My word!

"What a gruesome idea!” I exclaimed.
"Imagine preserving that brain, of all
others, and keeping it at your elbow day
and night!”

Klegg smiled. "A dead brain is a
dead brain. Cleave. It doesn’t matter
who owned it in life. Besides, we’re re¬

duced to getting our cadavers mainly
from the state. More often than not the
corpse stretched on the surgical slab is
that of some criminal. But come away,
and let me show you the real work I
called you in to see.”

"I thought that was it," I said, point¬
ing to the heart and the brain from which
sprouted the glaring eyeballs.

"Oh, no. That’s quite an achieve¬
ment, if I do say so myself. But the real
achievement stands under that canvas
shroud.” And he started toward the gi¬
gantic, veiled figure I had noticed when
I first was shown into the laboratory.

I followed him, but I could still feel
those exposed eyeballs boring into my
back. They had no muscles to turn them,
so their gaze could not follow my path.
But I was sure that, with no sockets to
restrict their vision, they could see me
out of their "corners” wherever I went.
It was devilish, that feeling. And I didn’t
lose it for a second in the laboratory that
night.

"Here,” said Klegg, his voice lower¬
ing, "is something really unique. But
before I show it to you, let me explain
some of the principles behind it.

"For years I have worked on the theory
that the human brain gives off energy in
rays as measurable and discoverable as
any other rays. Thought-rays, you might
call them. Recently I solved my problem.

I discovered the pure thought-ray and to
some extent analyzed its secret and meas¬
ured its wave-length. I’ve found brain
emanations to be a hitherto unknown
form of electrical energy somewhat akin
to magnetism. This energy is capable of
being harnessed by the use of proper mag¬
netic receptors. You understand?”

"After a fashion,” I said.

"All right then”—his voice rang with
triumph—"look!”

THE IRON MAN

723

Dramatically he jerked the cord that
swept away the canvas from the twenty-
foot-high thing it had hidden. And as I
saw what the canvas had concealed, I
gasped and started back a pace.

It was a colossal man, of iron. Or, I
should say, it was a grim metal travesty
of a man.

Two stories up, brushing the roof of
the lofty laboratory, was the thing’s
"head”—a steel cylinder two feet in di¬
ameter and a yard high. In this, to carry
out human resemblance, were cut eye¬
holes.

The cylinder was set, like a hat-box
atop a hogshead, on a larger cylinder that
made up the torso of the monstrous thing.
Through the top of the larger cylinder
ran a heavy casting, a beam which pro¬
truded a yard on either side. These pro¬
trusions were the "shoulders” and from
them hung cylindrical arms, jointed, and
ending in two-clawed pincers that took
the place of hands.

The whole rested on two ponderous
Steel columns of legs, and the legs ended
in "feet” which were solid metal pyra¬
mids with pivot joints at the apices for
ankles.

"Watch it,” said Klegg proudly.

He stared at it fixedly, his forehead
wrinkling as if in terrific mental concen¬
tration. (I found out later that this was
sheer theatrics; thought no more pro¬
found than a wish for pancakes for break¬
fast was enough to work the mechanism.)

In an instant the monstrous robot was
set in ponderous motion. The iron man
slowly lifted its right leg, slowly extended
it in a forward step, and as slowly set it
down. The left leg followed suit. In two
strides the enormous thing was almost on
top of us.

With a cry I leaped aside to avoid being
crushed. But it stopped there, obedient to
Klegg’s will. Then it backed into its

former place, two strides in reverse. The
floor, though of solid cement poured on
the ground itself, quivered with its mass.
Tons, it weighed.

"It looks impressive, doesn’t it?” said
Klegg. He almost crowed it. "Yet it's
all a simple arrangement of weights,
levers and steel cables, set in motion by
the comparatively small pull of magnets
which are acted upon by my thought—
after being 'stepped-up' a good many mil¬
lion times. I can control the thing as
though it were my own body.”

"It’s—it’s heavy, isn’t it?” was the best
I could say.

"Twenty tons. You see, for every
weight moved, I had to provide a counter¬
weight. When I got through I found I
had a regular steam-roller on my hands.”

"What keeps it from falling over on
its face?” I asked.

"A gyroscope, run by storage batteries
in its chest.” Klegg was beaming like a
lad who shows off a home-made radio set
with which he can get Australia. "The
officials of the Easton Electric Company
are coming to see me a week from to¬
morrow. They’ll certainly see a demon¬
stration!”

"They certainly will,” I said weakly.
"Why in heaven’s name did you build the
thing so big?”

"To make the demonstration more spec¬
tacular.” Ah, there spoke his vanity again.
"Tons of metal, so delicately balanced and
counterbalanced that it can be moved
solely by the power of thought! The idea
was irresistibly alluring. And now that
the thing is done, I can make it follow
me about like a dog, if I wish.”

"I wouldn’t,” I said, visioning little
Klegg walking down Main Street with the
towering colossus thundering meekly
behind him.

He made the robot do more tricks for
me. One was to pick up a telephone book

724

WEIRD TALES

from a bench in its mighty pincers of
hands. There wasn’t much left of the
book when it finished, but it picked it up,
all right.

Then I left — side-stepping widely
around the glass case in which were the
brain and heart, and the horrible, alive-
looking eyeballs which seemed to note our
movements with devilish concentration.

I went home, to wonder at the amazing
combination of scientific genius and vain¬
glorious little boy that was Klegg.

I had nightmares about the contents of
that glass case. If ever anything looked
alive, those glaring eyeballs did. Yet
Klegg had assured me, as did my own
common sense, that brain and heart and
eyes were dead, though the individual
cells composing them lived on in the salt
solution.

F ive days were destined to pass before
I heard from Klegg again. And then
he was to get in touch with me under cir¬
cumstances so fantastic and terrible. . . .

But I’d better stick to some sort of order
in my account.

Eleven o’clock in the evening of that
fifth day. I had just come home and,
minus collar and coat, was smoking a
good-night pipe before turning in, when
my telephone rang.

"Hello-” I began. But my voice

was cut off by a wild rush of words ava¬
lanching over the wire.

"Cleave! Is that you? Cleave—this is
Klegg. Cleave—for God’s sake come
over here at once! To my laboratory! You
hear? The thing’s got loose! Come at

once—oh, my God! It’s after me-”

There was a crash, a sound like distant
thunder over the telephone, then silence.

"Klegg!” I called, stupidly shaking the
telephone as if it were his shoulder I had
hold of. "Klegg! What’s wrong?”

But there was no answer; and in a sec¬

ond or two I had collected my wits. I tore
out into the warm summer night, hatless
and collarless and in my shirt sleeves, and
jumped a taxi for Klegg’s laboratory.

The front part of his house was all in
darkness. I pounded at the door, rang the
bell furiously. No one answered. I re¬
membered then that it was the night off
for Klegg’s servants. Klegg alone—no
one to help or admit help—and he in
some terrible trouble. . . .

But what could the trouble be? Bur¬
glars? No. Klegg had said it was after
him. It was loose.

With knuckles bleeding from the fruit¬
less pounding at the door, I raced around
to the rear of the house. Here, a separate
brick building connected with the house
by a short, covered runway, was the
laboratory.

"Klegg!” I shouted as I came. "It’s I—
Cleave. Can you open the back door, or a
window-”

I stopped, then, and stared, stupefied,
at the wall of the laboratory.

From ground level to roof there was a
yawning hole in the solid wall. And
scattered over the lawn and sidewalk were
the bricks that had filled that space, some
broken to chips and some crushed to dust.
A charge of dynamite could have done no
more damage.

Then I saw, in the strip of lawn between
sidewalk and laboratory, a single hole,
like a footprint save that it was a yard
square and ten inches deep. And I knew,
of course, what it was that had got loose.

"Klegg!” I cried again, leaping in
through the gaping hole in the wall.
"Klegg!”

The laboratory was in ruins. Every bit
of apparatus, every work-bench and in¬
strument was crushed as flat as if a steam¬
roller had been methodically driven from
side to side and end to end of the place.
The electric globes blazed down on a

THE IRON MAN

725

ruin more complete than an earthquake
could have produced.

"Klegg, where are you?”

I heard a low moan from near the
door.

I jumped in that direction, saw a figure
lying on the cracked cement near it—and
stopped in horror.

It was Klegg, or, rather, what was left
of him. How he had managed to live
during the minutes of my coming is more
than I’ll ever be able to figure out. Pure
will-power, I guess.

From the waist down he was a ghastly
pulp. His chest . . . well, I won’t go
into details.

His eyes were glazing even as I looked
into them; plainly he had only a few sec¬
onds left.

"The iron man,” he whispered. "Broke
away, stalking the city . . . loose . . .
twenty tons of death. . .

"But how could it break away?” I de¬
manded. "It has no will of its own; it’s
just a mass of steel.”

. . brain,” whispered Klegg, "brain
in glass case. It was alive . . . alive! And
I . . . put case and all in iron man’s head.
Something made me . . . like hypno¬
tism. . . .”

"Yes,” I urged. "Yes. . .

But Klegg was past urging. He was
dead.

I stared down at the pitiably twisted
thing that had once been a human being.
So small, so inconsequential-looking. But
what a monstrous thing it had done!

The iron man, twenty tons of invul¬
nerable metal, stalking through the
crowded city—directed by the maniacal,
revengeful brain of the mad Tuzloff!
Twenty tons of steel, guided by a soft
gray lump of pure hate in a salt solution!
What horrible possibilities were there!

"May God forgive you, Klegg,” I mur¬

mured. "For I’m afraid mankind never
will.”

Yet it wasn’t his fault, really. That
malevolent brain—which had been alive
after all, as my every instinct had warned
—shut up alone with him week after
week, working on his unsuspecting mind,
slowly dominating it, sapping into it, im¬
posing its own will on Klegg’s—till final¬
ly the scientist’s will had snapped and he
had mesmerically obeyed its command and
given it a new body of steel.

"Yes, yes,” I mumbled in the wrecked
laboratory, "easy to see how it happened.
But what in God’s name can be done to
stop it?”

That naked heart would beat in its salt
solution till the containing case was
smashed; and while it pulsed the brain
would live to guide its fantastic engine of
destruction. The engine itself would con¬
tinue upright as long as the storage bat¬
teries retained energy to drive the gyro¬
scopic controls in its iron breast. Left to
itself, the thing might function for days.

Meanwhile, gory death as it tramped
the city under the control of a criminally
insane brain!

“Tt’s got to be stopped!” I babbled,
A starting to run through the yawning
hole in the brick wall. "It must be
stopped! But how?”

On the sidewalk, I turned instinctively
to the right. To the right lay the main
avenue of the city, a car-line street leading
straight toward the downtown section.
That would be Tuzloffs destination.

No sooner had I turned into the bright¬
ly lighted main avenue than I saw I would
have no difficulty trailing the iron man.
What a wake it had left!

At this section of the street, not a liv¬
ing soul moved on sidewalk or pavement.
Yet excitement and horror seethed in the
very air. Moans and screams were coming

726

WEIRD TALES

from every window above the second floor
level. And from every window people
peered fearfully.

I stood in the center of the street and
gazed around.

At the curb on one side were the re¬
mains of a touring-car. It was smashed
flat. The steering-wheel was crushed on
its twisted column, and embedded in a
gory ruin. A small sedan that had been
parked in front of it had also been
squeezed flat; but this car, as far as I
could see, luckily had been empty.

On the rails of the car track was a
ghastly mound of wreckage. A street-car,
or what was left of it. It had been pushed
over on its side and painstakingly de¬
molished. Roof and sides were splintered
to nothing. Only the solid undercarriage
was left fairly intact. And around the
shattered car were at least a score of
bodies—great, shapeless smears on the
pavement.

"Look out!” I remember hearing some
woman shriek. "Look out! It’ll get you,
too!”

I only half heard the warning. Trem¬
bling, white-faced, I began to hurry down
the avenue in the monstrous trail of the
iron man.

Wrecked automobiles littered the pave¬
ment every few feet. Some were at the
curb, some in the middle of the street.
The latter in every case were spattered
with crimson. The iron man had evident¬
ly caught them as they rolled toward him
—drivers no doubt petrified with horror
—stamped them flat with a single stride,
and gone on.

Street-cars knocked over and demol¬
ished, trolley poles broken off like celery
stalks to trail live wires on the pavement,
horrible red blotches everywhere on the
slippery street—a tornado could not have
left a plainer path.

And now, from far ahead, on the

fringe of the downtown section, I heard
a din that grew louder as I hurried toward
it. Shouts, yells, screams, a lurid red
flare as a fire started some place near, and
over it all the thunderous crashing of
some great weight pounding along the
pavement.

In a moment or two I got within half
a block of the thing. And there I paused,
rigid at the spectacle.

Glinting dully in the reflected light of
street lamps and electric signs was the
iron man, stalking down the street ahead
of me.

Two stories up swayed the cylindrical
head in which were the artificially pre¬
served heart and the mad brain. Two
stories tail the figure teetered down the
street, like a reeling tower. A three-yard
step. Five seconds while the counterbal¬
anced weights slid in accordance to the
magnetic controls, lifting the other leg
high and lowering it in advance. Another
step. Five seconds. Another step. And
with every step a crashing boom of
twenty tons of metal banging down on
stone paving—or on an automobile or
human body.

Slowly the tower of the body leaned
forward like a falling cliff with each ad¬
vancing step, straightened as the stride
was taken, leaned backward as the next
was begun. Its giant arms, ending in the
mighty pincers, clanged against its metal
sides as it moved. Back and forth, back
and forth, with each forward lunge carry¬
ing it farther toward the heart of the
downtown district—and the theater and
supper crowds teeming there.

In spite of the thickening of the crowds,
however, the occasional red smears on the
pavement grew no more numerous. The
iron man moved too slowly to overtake
many victims. Thus, though people were
pouring toward the source of the commo¬
tion with mob curiosity from every direc-

THE IRON MAN

727

tion, the metal monster had its appetite
glutted but seldom. People who fell in its
path in their mad scramble to get away
once they had seen what manner of thing
was making the noise; people who chanced
to dash out of building entrances squarely
in its road; people who tried crazily to
hide under cars or in too shallow door¬
ways—these were the only ones caught
under the huge descending pyramids of
iron.

And so the thing moved forward with
the steady, inexorable advance of a glacier,
making every five-second stride demolish
something — property, and more rarely,
but still only too often, life; something—
on its devastating way.

A gray-haired man, erect of carriage,
blazing-eyed, with a military appearance,
rushed out of a restaurant and toward me.

"Gad, sir!” he spluttered. “Gad, sir! Is
it war? Is this some new kind of tank
directed by radio?”

He rushed off without waiting for an
answer. I saw him blaze away with an
automatic at the back of the iron man.
The bullets glanced off the rounded steel
body like peas from a child’s bean-blower.
There were others shooting at it, also.
Half a dozen police were there, pumping
futile bullets at it.

At one minute I saw the half-dozen
police and the military-looking man in a
close group at the monster’s heels—at the
next I saw the iron man, with fiendish
suddenness, reverse its stride and step
backward instead of forward.

It got two of the group as they fell
over each other trying to get out of the
way.

The soul of Tuzloff, mad murderer,
must have rejoiced in its niche in hell.
Unless Tuzloff’s soul, with Tuzloff’s con¬
scious intelligence, was in the glass case
with his heart and brain. . . . Could souls
be kept in salt solutions, too? I wondered

crazily as I racked my brain for a way to
stop this awful destruction.

T he shriek of a police siren sounded
far off to the right. Then another,
and another. A general riot call had evi¬
dently been turned in at last.

I ran down the side street toward the
wailing police cars, leaving for the mo¬
ment the main street on which the iron
man was sowing broadcast the seed of
ruin. Of all the crowd, I was the only
one who knew the true nature of the
colossus. It was up to me to put my
knowledge at the disposal of the blue-
coated fighters about to do battle with it.

Down the street toward me came a line
of cars filled with blue-uniformed figures.
I stopped the first by the simple method
of standing squarely in its path and wav¬
ing my arms, meanwhile refusing to
budge from its charge. I thought at first
the car meant to run me down, heedless of
one life by reason of the emergency of the
call ahead. But at the last minute it skid¬
ded to a halt. I jumped onto the running-
board.

A big man with a grizzled mustache,
whose star shone gold instead of silver,
glared at me.

"Who the hell are you,” he snapped,
"and why the hell are you holding us up?”

"Who I am doesn’t matter,” I said. "I
stopped you because I know all about the
thing up ahead you’re out to fight.”

There was a hubbub from the other six
men in the car.

"You do?”

"What is it, then?”

"Where is it?”

The man with the gold star held up
his hand for silence.

"We were told that some lunatic had
got hold of an army tank and was running
wild in it. Is that true? If it is, we’d bet-

728

WEIRD TALES

ter phone the Fort for soldiers and field
artillery.”

"It’s not a tank,” I said rapidly. "It’s
an iron man, twenty feet high and proof
against rifle or revolver bullets.”

“An iron man!” repeated the chief,
staring.

"Aw, throw him off the running-board
and let’s get going,” some one growled
savagely.

"I’m not crazy,” I said. “For God’s
sake, listen to me! This thing is a big
machine, in the shape of a man, twenty
feet high. It’s made of iron and it travels
on two legs.”

"How is it run?” was the skeptical
question.

The words of the military-looking gen¬
tleman—now a smear on the pavement—
occurred to me. I reconsidered my idea
of telling the fantastic truth about the
iron giant. Better to say something that
sounded credible than try, in this crowded
moment, to cram the true facts down their
throats.

“It’s run by radio,” I said. "But listen:
the radio-control mechanism is in the
thing’s head, a two-foot steel cylinder on
top of the rest of the machine. This cylin¬
der has two holes in it, like eye-holes. The
thing to do is sharpshoot through one of
those holes and smash the radio-control.
Once that’s done, the machine stops work¬
ing. Get me?”

"Got you,” he said. "But first we’ll
draw a cordon around this section to keep
these fools from rushing in and risking
their lives. Steve, flag the rest and tell ’em
to block off the streets four blocks each
way from here. And you”—he stabbed
his blunt forefinger at me—“ride the run¬
ning-board till we get to this thing ahead.”

The police driver jammed into gear
and we sped forward. Half a block to the
main avenue. A block to the right.

"Good God!” muttered the chief, star¬

ing at the monstrous moving tower, red¬
dened half-way up its columnar legs, that
was steadily working forward along the
shambles of a street.

Even as we stared, the iron man reaped
a ghastly windfall. A score of people, in¬
stead of trying to run, had stupidly
crammed into the body of a big closed
truck parked at the curb, to hide from
the nightmare thing of metal that was
trampling toward them.

The iron man stopped. One great leg
went out, to push against the truck. The
truck rocked half off its wheels but stayed
upright. Yells and shrieks came from
within it. A few—all too few—managed
to leap out and get away. The rest . . .

The iron man pushed again. The truck
leaned farther, balanced an instant, then
smashed onto its side.

A great iron pyramid of a foot lifted—
descended—lifted again.

With a groan the chief whirled to his
men.

"Into the buildings ahead of it,” he
snapped. “Second-story windows—level
with the damned thing’s head. Concen¬
trate fire on the eye-holes. Sub-machine
guns. Quick!”

T he men jumped out of the car, five
of them, one a strapping blond young
fellow hardly more than a lad. I noticed
him then because he seemed so young—
he couldn’t have been more than twenty-
two. And later . . . well, the whole city
united in placing him on a hero’s pedestal.

The five rushed forward, skirting
around the iron man, fighting their way
by main force through the screaming mob,
till they were fifty yards ahead. Then they
burst in the doors of the department stores
flanking the street at that section and ran
up to the second-floor windows. There
they stationed themselves, two on one side
of the street, three on the other, guns

THE IRON MAN

729

ready to belch lead at the two-foot cylin¬
der housing the "radio-control mechan¬
ism.”

The chief stayed behind with me. As
fast as he could load his revolver, he fired
at the turret of a head. But no result was
apparent. Hundreds of bullets had been
fired at the iron man by now—from the
guns of police and a few civilians—with
the same lack of result. No armored tank
could have been more impervious to gun¬
fire.

"Tons of metal, moved solely by the
power of thought!” Klegg had built his
man so heavy "to make the demonstra¬
tion more spectacular.”

Well, the demonstration was proving
spectacular enough!

"The boys’ll get it through the eye¬
holes,” said the chief, stopping his vain
firing at last. "Every mother’s son of ’em
is a marksman. You wait.”

By now the iron man was within thirty
yards of the windows where the men wait¬
ed for it. We held our breaths.

Thud. A five-second interlude, agon¬
izingly long, while one great leg lifted
ponderously to be set down before the
other, the tower of a body swaying slow¬
ly back and then inclining forward. Thud.
Five seconds again. Thud.

Smash! Bang! A glittering limousine
reduced to a tangled mass of wreckage.
Crash! A trolley pole snapped off at its
base.

How Tuzloff must have been laughing,
had he lips to laugh with! Never in life
could his distorted mind have compassed
a hundredth of the damage a scientist’s
mistake was granting him in death.

A stabbing flame burst at last from the
second-story window on the iron man’s
left. Another came from the right, con¬
verging toward the ghastly, cylindrical
head.

There was a wild clanging of bullets on

steel. Slight dents appeared in the cylin¬
der in swift succession, like dents in the
surface of a puddle of water in a rain¬
storm.

"They’ve got it! They’ve got it!”
shouted the chief.

But they hadn’t got it. My simple idea
of firing into the eye-holes to break the
glass case and spill its contents—heart,
brain, salt solution and all — was not
going to work. And the next instant the
chief saw it too.

There is no doubt that Tuzloff’s brain
could "hear” the bullets that beat against
the monstrous iron body. The shock
of these impacts must certainly have
sent vibrations to the sound areas of the
cortex, in its fluid solution. The "sound”
may have been slight; it may have battered
terribly against the raw, exposed brain
surface; at any rate it was certainly sensed.

With the first indication that here at
last was a really efficient and well-directed
fire, the iron man stopped in its tracks. It
couldn’t lower its head to present the
blank top of the cylinder to the hail of
bullets; there was no neck to bend. It
couldn’t incline its whole body, save for
the slight leaning backward and forward
of walking, because of the gyroscopic
controls.

But it could—and did—turn around so
that its cartoon of a "face” was no longer
in danger from the bullets of the men in
the windows ahead of it.

Back it came, over the red road it had
traveled. Back directly toward the chief
and myself. And now the chief began
firing again, slowly, taking careful aim.
But the eye-holes were small; the two-foot
cylinder was moving in a difficult arc; and
the only light was that from electric signs
and the few street lamps the giant had
left unbroken. No bullet hit near the
mark.

Both ponderous arms extended slowly

730

WEIRD TALES

toward us. The clanking pincers stretched
wide, then lunged in our direction.

We ran.

Fifty feet away we stopped and looked
back. The iron terror, we saw, was still
stubbornly following us. But—we saw
something else.

Behind the iron man, keeping pace
with it and so near it would have crushed
him had it fallen over backward, was a
blue-clad figure. And this figure was
swinging a coil of rope picked up in one
of the department stores.

It was the blond youngster who had
ridden in the chief’s car.

"Doyle!” muttered the chief. "But
what’s he up to? Does he think he can
trip that thing with rope? It would snap
rope like thread!”

But it seemed that was not the blond
young giant’s idea.

Deliberately he drew still closer to the
crashing iron monster. He started whirl¬
ing his noose, awkwardly, inexpertly, but
managing to keep the loop fairly wide¬
spread. He cast it—and cast it upward.
The cast failed, but the chief and I gasped
as we noted his target.

He was trying to lasso the cylindrical
head.

"But what will he do if he succeeds,
eh?” snapped the chief. "That is, if it’s
possible for him to succeed—and not be
smashed like a potato-bug in the trying.”

I shook my head. It was beyond me.
Then both of us hopped back a few hasty
steps. The iron man was pursuing us like
a slow-moving avalanche, relentlessly,
steadily, everything else but our destruc¬
tion seeming for the moment to be for¬
gotten by it.

Or was it my destruction the thing
wanted? Had the naked, diabolical eye¬
balls, glaring through one or other of the
head-holes, recognized me as a friend of
Klegg’s? Had the brain behind the eyes

realized that I knew of its existence, and
decided that I must be crushed before
the other work of destruction could be
resumed? It was more than possible.

At any rate the iron man appeared just
then to have no target in mind but us.
And we let it be so. Our backward prog¬
ress was deliberately kept slow enough
so that the clanging pincers were con¬
stantly within a few yards of us. For, as
the chief said: "Looks like our play now
is to keep it occupied till Doyle can do—
whatever it is he’s trying to do.”

Again the blond youngster, Doyle,
made an awkward cast with his loop. This
time the noose settled clumsily around
the head. Doyle drew it tight.

"And now what?” I breathed, staring
wide-eyed at the man in the monster’s
tracks.

"Back!” roared the chief.

I barely made it. I’d been almost fatal¬
ly interested in the maneuvers of Doyle.
And while I was watching them, the iron
man had got almost too close. I’ll swear
the pincers fanned my face as they swept
downward.

F rom our next halting-place we turned
to look again. And then our hearts
seemed to stop in our breasts. At least
mine did; and the open mouth and ster¬
torous breathing of the chief, as he stared
at his man, indicated that he was as ap¬
palled and fascinated as I was.

For Doyle was starting to climb his
rope, hand over hand, toward the iron
man’s head.

Foot by foot he progressed, scaling the
sheer cliff of the metal giant’s back.
With each forward sway, he stopped.
Evidently in those seconds it was all he
could do to hang on. In each backward
leaning he hauled himself up a bit more.
He got to within four feet of the base of
the head, within which he innocently sup-

THE IRON MAN

731

posed was a soulless bit of radio mechan¬
ism. Three feet. And still we couldn’t
divine what purpose was behind his
daring.

And then the vast iron thing stopped,
as though at last aware of the clinging,
puny creature on its back. But it couldn’t
be aware of it! No nerves to feel. No ears
to hear. Unless the scraping of Doyle’s
heavy shoes had carried through the metal
to the brain in the case? But that was
utterly improbable.

Nevertheless, the thing did know, sud¬
denly, that something was on its back.
And I believe I know now how that
could be.

The eyes of the chief and myself, and
of every soul within range, were focussed
on Doyle. In every face must have been
stamped the same agonizing tensity I felt
on my own as I watched his perilous
ascent up the moving metal cliff, with the
ponderous arms swinging within inches of
brushing him off at every step the monster
took. The glaring eyeballs in the head, I
think, noted that uniformity of gaze. The
satanic intelligence behind them must
have divined its cause.

Anyhow, the iron man paused, half
turned, then began to back with regular,
machine-like steps up over the broad
sidewalk and straight toward the stone
wall of the nearest building.

"Drop!” bellowed the chief, his face
death-white. "Doyle—drop!”

But Doyle, it seemed, had no intention
of dropping. He clung all the tighter, like
a climber on a tree trunk in a gale of wind,
while the iron man backed nearer and
nearer to the fatal wall.

"Jump!” commanded the chief.

But again Doyle disobeyed; perhaps he
could not hear. And deathly silence fell
on those of us who watched—a silence
broken only by the crash of the iron feet
as they thudded on the sidewalk.

The picture will be etched on my brain
till I die.

A street lamp gleamed from a pole
near by. It flared into the vacant eye-holes
on a level with them and only a few feet
away. It showed in every detail the clang¬
ing metal monster backing toward the
building wall to crush the man on its
back, meanwhile throwing that gallant fig¬
ure, struggling to keep its hold on the
jerking rope, into deep shadow.

But Doyle was doing more than mere¬
ly struggle to keep his grip. He was still
inching higher.

A pendulum swing of the rope brought
him a little to one side, and we saw that
only a foot separated him now from the
shallow flat terrace formed by the top of
the body-cylinder around the smaller cyl¬
inder of the head.

Doyle’s fingers caught the edge of the
shallow terrace. He let go of the rope-

Crash!

The mountainous bulk had smashed
against the wall. Stone chips flew from
the grinding surface where Doyle had
clung.

And Doyle? He was on the terrace of
the "shoulders”, clinging at last to the
goal he had set himself. But his left foot
was dangling at a sickening angle.

F or an instant we saw him cling mo¬
tionless. His face in the light of the
street lamp was green. But he stuck,
hugging the two-foot cylinder of a head as
a lineman hugs a telegraph pole. And at
last he began to move, inch by inch, to
conclude the task he had so heroically
begun.

Inch by inch he started to swarm
around the cylinder toward the front of it.
Again the great hulk of iron beneath him
banged against the stone wall. The shock
was terrific, but Doyle stayed.

His legs clamped more firmly around

732

WEIRD TALES

the head, he drew himself squarely in
front of the "face”—and thus at last had
the bull’s-eye so close that it couldn’t pos¬
sibly be missed.

He jerked his gun from its holster,
leveled it into an eye-hole. . . .

A half-yell, such as even the agony of
his crushed foot had not sufficed to wring
from him, came from his pallid lips. And
then he seemed to turn to stone. Of all
the mob, I alone knew the reason.

What must have been his horror when
his eyes, sighting into the cavernous head,
saw the fiendish eyeballs glaring out of
the glass case, returning stare for stare?
No radio mechanism, but disembodied
human eyes! For of course he must have
seen them. The street-light the monster
was facing surely shone in enough to re¬
veal them.

Turned to stone! It is a hackneyed
description, but it is the most exact I can
think of to apply to the way he continued
inactive, paralyzed in mid-course. And
while he clung there, revolver leveled at
the glass case in the iron man’s head but
with his nerveless finger refusing to pull
the trigger, one of the great arms started
to sweep slowly up toward him.

"Doyle . . . Doyle . . . Doyle,” whis¬
pered the chief by my side. I believe he
thought he was shouting it. "Doyle . . .
look out . . . Doyle. . .

Not more than five seconds could have
been required for the balanced weights in
the iron torso to draw up that grim, claw-
tipped arm. But it seemed like five hours.
And throughout that time, when the night
itself seemed to be holding its breath,
Doyle hung still.

The arm curved in on itself. The gi¬

gantic pincers opened wide like the jaws
of a steam shovel. They closed. . . .

There was a single shot as Doyle’s mus¬
cles finally obeyed his frantic brain.
Simultaneously with the shot a terrible
scream came from his lips.

The ponderous arm straightened jerk¬
ily; stopped; moved convulsively again,
for all the world like the limb of a
wounded living creature. Then it hung
still, as hangs the arm of a leaning der¬
rick. And suspended in midair, writhing
feebly in the clasp of the murderous pin¬
cers, was Doyle.

For a moment we could only stand
and gape at the struggling figure hang¬
ing high over our heads. Then a dozen of
us began fighting for the privilege of
being the first to climb the trailing rope
and rescue him.

We eased him out of the awful clutch
—a thing made possible only by the fact
that his shot had smashed tire case and
the brain a bare instant before the claws
could clamp with their full force—and
lowered him gently to the street.

"He’ll live,” said a doctor who had
fought his way through the crowd to
bend over the badly crushed man. "He’ll
spend the next few months in a plaster
cast. But he’ll live.”

"And he’ll get some nice, shiny medals
for this, too,” said the chief gruffly.

Doyle grinned weakly up at us. His
lips moved. We bent to hear what he had
to say. Some heroic statement that would
ring down the years? "I only did my
duty?” Something like that?

"Trade somebody the medals ... fora
cigarette,” was what he whispered.

"He fired twice blindly and
missed; then be fired four
times methodically.”

Vhe

Crawling

By HUGH B. CAVE

A shivery tale of an East In¬
dian murder and the ghastly
fate that hounded the mur¬
derer to his doom

Curse

V ESKER, the Dutchman, paced
methodically down the second-floor
corridor and entered the room num¬
bered 213. It was the room of the man
he meant to murder; and without emotion
or nervousness or any feeling whatever,
he hid himself there to await his victim’s
arrival.

The hour was eleven o’clock at night,
and Vesker’s victim would return at
eleven-fifteen. His name was Tenegai
LaRoque, and he was a good man. He
was part French and part Saputan, which

made him a half-caste in the eyes of cer¬
tain white men and a king invincible in
the eyes of certain up-river natives. Gov¬
ernment officials had thought enough of
him to overlook the fact that he was the
illegitimate son of a Saputan sorceress,
and remember that he was also the son of
a distinguished French officer. Conse¬
quently he held a position of high impor¬
tance in Bandjermasin.

At present he was playing bridge with
his wife and his wife’s friends. It was
his wife’s arrangement. His wife was
733 .

734

WEIRD TALES

twenty-four and unforgivably lovely, and
passionately French.

It was for her sake, as well as his own,
that Vesker was hiding in Tenegai La-
Roque’s room. She and Vesker had
planned the details together. Neither of
them loved the man who was to be mur¬
dered.

The room was shadow-ridden and
murky, and a very good place for Vesker’s
purpose. It was one of the best rooms in
Bandjermasin’s best hotel, which meant
that it possessed two narrow windows and
smelled a little and seldom saw light
enough to dispel the lurking gloom. To¬
night, as Vesker stood at the east win¬
dow, the gloom was thick enough to be
alive, and the view outside was one of
blade house-tops, twisted street-alleys, and
occasional furtive eyes of ocher light.

Vesker stood and listened, and heard
nothing; so he paced the room twice and
then leaned against the wall with a cig¬
arette dangling from his mouth. He was
not afraid of what he was going to do. It
would be quite simple and silent, and no
one would know. No one but God, Ves¬
ker thought; and God was too busy with
big affairs to worry about mere details.

There would be questions, afterward,
and perhaps an official investigation. But
that meant nothing. Bandjermasin was
full of officious persons who had nothing
to do but investigate this and that, with¬
out learning anything.

It was eleven-fifteen. Vesker dropped
his cigarette and stepped on it, and flat¬
tened his body against the wall behind the
door. From his pocket he took a short
length of lead piping, which was heavy
and very solid. And he waited.

Presently he heard some one coming.
The door opened, and a tall, stoop-shoul¬
dered shape stepped over the threshold.
Vesker lifted the lead piping and brought
it down again mightily. There was a

crunch of bone, and a thin wheezing, and
then the thump of a falling body.

Vesker stood over his victim and smiled
thoughtfully. He put the weapon back
into his pocket. Then he moved to the
door, stepped out, listened intently, and
came back again. He went to his knees
and adjusted the limp body over his
shoulder.

He closed the door of Tenegai La-
Roque’s room after him and carried Ten¬
egai LaRoque to his own room, on the
third floor. There he dropped his victim
on the bed, and grinned, and breathed
deeply with satisfaction.

No one would know.

I aRoque was dead. Vesker bent over
J him and listened for the sound pf a
beating heart, and heard nothing. He
fumbled with the man’s wrist and felt no
pulse. So he went to a cupboard and
took out four empty burlap bags, and
dropped them on the floor. Then, from a
bureau drawer, he took a large sheet of
waterproof canvas and spread that over
the carpet. He put the dead man on it.

While he was doing this, Tenegai La-
Roque’s wife came into the room.

She was undoubtedly beautiful, this
woman. Her hair was black and her eyes
were black, and a tropical sun had dark¬
ened her skin so that it stood out in star¬
tling contrast to the off-white of her eve¬
ning gown. She was slender and not too
tall, and the lines of her body were dar¬
ingly revealed by the fit of her dress. She
came and stood beside Vesker and looked
down into the dead face of her husband.

"You are a brave man, Corlu,’’ she
smiled.

Vesker looked at her. He wanted this
woman. From the very first night of
their friendship, when he had met her at
an exclusive social affair, he had wanted
her.

THE CRAWLING CURSE

735

"Any man can be brave,” he said, "for
sufficient reason.”

"And I am sufficient?”

He took her in his arms and buried his
lips in her black hair, and there was no
need to answer.

"I love you, Renee,” he said. But he
did not love her; he wanted her. And
he knew the difference. He held her
against him until the perspiration of his
arms left wet lines in her dress. Then
he released her and said quietly:

"This will not be pretty. You had bet¬
ter go.”

"You will come to me later?”

"As soon as it is finished.”

She kissed him and touched the body
of her husband with her foot. Then she
laughed softly, and went out, and Vesker
locked the door after her.

He knelt beside the dead man, then,
and undressed him, leaving him stark na¬
ked on the canvas sheet. Looking at what
he had done, he smiled and said almost
inaudibly:

"Yes, it will not be pretty. But it will
soon be over, my friend.”

He went to the bed and raised the mat¬
tress, and took out a leather case which
contained instruments. Then he went to
the door again and made sure that it was
locked. After that he loosened one of the
bulbs in the chandelier above him, because
the bright light seemed to threaten his
solitude. And finally, with the case of in¬
struments on the canvas beside him, he
knelt again beside the dead man.

I T would have been an all-night job
had he not known how; but among
other things he had studied medicine and
knew the use of scalpel and hack-saw.
And he had no personal feelings about the
task. It was mechanical and did not
frighten him.

He began with the dead man’s leg, and

at the first stroke of the knife the body
twitched convulsively and the victim’s lips
parted to release a groaning monotone.
Vesker stiffened and stared into the man’s
countenance. Then he listened again at
the man’s breast, and scowled. After that
he worked very quickly.

He worked for an hour before he felt
that he was not alone. The feeling grew
upon him and annoyed him, so that he
ceased his labor and rocked back on his
knees. He had already removed both of
his victim’s legs and placed them to one
side. The severed head and left arm lay
with them on the canvas. Only the right
arm remained, and it lay limp with its
fingers slightly curled.

Vesker stared at it uneasily and told
himself that the slow opening of the fin¬
gers was due to natural causes, and not
to anything else. But a mist was form¬
ing over the fingers, or seemed to be, and
it frightened him. The mist was like cig¬
arette smoke, thin and gray and tenuous,
and in motion. Was it taking form? No,
of course it was not. That was only his
silly imagination, and the lateness of the
hour, and the unpleasantness of his task.
And yet surely-

The mist was taking form. Vesker
watched it and shrank away from it. It
was a hand, now, like the hand of the
dead man on the floor, except that these
smoky fingers were malformed and ex¬
ceedingly long. And they were descend¬
ing slowly into the real hand. They were
becoming a part of it.

The fingers of the dead man’s hand
opened, then, while Vesker watched them.
The index finger pointed into his face
accusingly, as if that other hand had given
it the power of life. But of course it was
not that; it was merely a mechanical re¬
flex action caused by the severing of cer¬
tain cords. Vesker laughed throatily.

He stopped laughing and held his

736

WEIRD TALES

breath. Over the victim’s torso a second
mist was forming, and the mist was be¬
coming a face. Yes, it was a face, a
woman’s face. How could there be a
woman’s face like that? Was it his
imagination? No, because he was think¬
ing of LaRoque’s wife, and this woman
was not LaRoque’s wife.

It was almost no face at all, but what
there was of it was vicious and sinister.
The eyes were slanted and the cheek¬
bones were high and the lips were full.
The woman was a native, and very old.
She was-

But that was foolish! There was no
woman here at all. He was making her
up in his mind and his inner consciousness
was projecting an image of her. That
was idiocy.

“There is nothing here,” Vesker said
aloud.

The woman’s lips parted in a smile and
seemed to form words to answer him.
Vesker cursed and leaned forward and
swept his arm through her. And then
he laughed, because she was not there.
She had never been there.

The hand of the dead man had shifted
position on the canvas, and the index fin¬
ger was still pointing at him. But that
was only reflex action.

"I would make a poor professional,”
Vesker said, smiling. “My nerves are
whisky-soaked.”

He finished his task and put his instru¬
ments back into the case. Then he filled
three of the burlap bags with portions of
the dead man’s body, and into the fourth
bag he thrust the bloody canvas and the
leather case. He wiped his hands on a
towel and put the towel in his pocket.
Then he unlocked the door and looked
out.

The lights had been turned off in the
corridor. Vesker took two of the burlap
bags with him and went out, and locked

the door after him. He carried the bags
down the back stairs, and a car was stand¬
ing in the side street. The street was de¬
serted, and the car was his own. He
placed the bags in the rear compartment.

He returned to his room, then, and
made sure that every trace of evidence had
been removed before he took the other
two bags down to the car. Then he sat
behind the wheel and drove.

He drove to the east end of the water¬
front and dropped one of the four bags
into the sea, after weighting it with heavy
stones. He drove farther and dropped
the second bag from the end of an aban¬
doned dock. The third bag and the
fourth he took with him in a rowboat and
transported far out into the bay.

Then he returned to the hotel and went
straight to Renee LaRoque’s room and let
himself in with his own key. And the
dead man’s wife was waiting for him.

2

F our days later, when he first saw it,
he was living in a private home in the
European quarter with Tenegai LaRoque’s
wife. And he laughed, because he
thought that the favorite cat of his mis¬
tress had eaten too much and was having
cramps.

He had forgotten about Tenegai La-
Roque. Four days had passed and there
had been an investigation. Government
officials had questioned the hotel author¬
ities aimlessly and foolishly, because
LaRoque had disappeared. Where had
LaRoque gone? No one knew. Perhaps
he had tired of the heat and monotony
of Bandjermasin and taken silent leave of
absence to Singapore. Other men had
done that. He would come back.

So they had stopped asking questions
and they were now wondering what La¬
Roque would say when he returned and
W. T.—4

THE CRAWLING CURSE

737

found his wife living with Corlu Vesker.
Presently they would find something else
to wonder about, and they would forget
the whole affair. There would be a native
uprising, or a Chinese merchant found
stabbed, or something else to take its
place.

So Vesker laughed when he first saw
it, because he had nothing to worry about.

He was alone on the veranda, in the
mosquito room. It was night, and a lamp
burned on the table, and the wire netting
was alive with droning insects. The glow
of the lamp reached feebly out over the
lawn and illuminated the veranda steps.

Vesker saw the thing on the steps.
Then he saw what it was, and he recoiled
so abruptly that he knocked the swizzle-
stick out of the tall glass on the table be¬
side him. For the thing was not a cat,
but a human arm with a hand and five
fingers, and it was sliding across the
veranda floor toward him.

He stood up and drew a deep breath
and walked toward it, because he did not
believe what he saw. But he did not open
the door of the mosquito room. He stood
with his face pressed against the screen,
staring silently. Then he shouted wildly:

"Renee! In the name of God, come
quick!”

The thing was ten feet away and ap¬
proaching like a large caterpillar, hump¬
ing itself in the center and clawing for¬
ward with its five groping fingers. Ves¬
ker stood quite still and watched it. His
eyes were wide and his face pale, and he
was afraid.

"Renee!” he shouted. "Renee! Come
out here!”

Then he took a small pearl-handled
revolver from the bulging pocket of his
linen coat, and flung the screen door
open. He fired twice blindly and missed,
and then he fired four times methodically.
The thing ceased its forward motion and
W. T.—5

reared like a swaying snake, with its five
fingers opening and closing in the air. It
fell backward with the impact of the last
bullet. Then it wriggled away with in¬
credible speed, while Vesker clung to the
door and gaped at it.

In a moment Renee LaRoque came and
stared at Vesker and said shrilly:

"What is it? What were you shooting
at?”

Vesker looked down at the revolver in
his hand, and looked at the veranda floor,
and shook his head heavily.

"I must be drunk,” he said.

But he knew better.

3

esker wrote a letter.

It was the evening of the seventh
day, and the lamp on the table threw his
big shadow grotesquely over the paper.
He was alone in the room and he was
afraid, and his letter was both a confes¬
sion and a lie.

"I killed him, and there was a good
reason for doing so. You knew him,
Fournier, so you will understand.”

Fournier—Captain Jason Fournier—
was in charge of the native police squad
which patrolled the evil quarter of Band-
jermasin’s waterfront.

"He was a half-caste and a rotter, and
he deserved to die, but I should not have
interfered except that he was dragging his
wife’s good name in the dust. He was
playing with another woman and the au¬
thorities suspected it. For Renee’s sake I
had to stop it.

"That night I went to his room at the
hotel and argued with him. He was
drunk, Fournier. You have seen him
drunk, and you know how utterly uncon¬
trollable he can become. He attacked
me and I struck him, and when I bent
over him he was dead.

738

WEIRD TALES

"Why am I telling you this? Because
I know it will go no further. We are
friends. And I need your help. A ter¬
rible thing has happened, and I am going
mad thinking of it. Four days after I had
hidden his body, a horrible beast tried to
get into the mosquito room to kill me. It
was his hand, Fournier. As God is my
witness, it was his hand and arm. His!
I shot it, and it went away, but last night
it came again and tried to get into my win¬
dow.

“That was about two o’clock in the
morning. I heard a scratching sound,
like rats, and I sat up in bed and switched
on a flashlight. The window was shut,
Fournier. I always sleep with my win¬
dows shut, thank God. And the thing
was coiled on the sill, with its five fingers
flattened against the glass. It had forced
the screen up, but the window was locked.
It was awful! You will laugh at me,
thinking I am drunk, but I am not drunk
and I was not drunk last night when the
thing came. What I saw was real.

"I screamed, Fournier, and rushed to
the bureau for my revolver. But the
thing has a brain, because when I turned
again to shoot it, it was not there. Renee
came running into the room—she is my
guest, you know, for the time being, until
she gets over the shock of her husband’s
infidelity—and she asked me what was
wrong. I told her. She said I was mad.
But I am not mad, Fournier. I was
never more sane or sober in my life. And
it was LaRoque’s hand, his arm and fin¬
gers, trying to kill me.

"You must help me. I can not go to
the police. The police would not know
what to do, anyway. This is a terrible
thing and driving me crazy. I am afraid,
because LaRoque was not a white man
but a half-caste, and part Saputan. They
say his mother was a sorceress.

“What shall I do, Fournier? You have

studied these things and know more than
I. What shall I do?”

Vesker read what he had written. It
did not give him courage; it frightened
him more. Putting his beliefs on paper
made him sure of them. He heard foot¬
steps in the corridor outside his door, and
he turned in his chair like a scared animal.

“Who is there?” he said harshly.

The knob turned and the door opened,
and Renee LaRoque stood there. She
wore yellow pajamas which were deep or¬
ange in the lamplight, and she had let her
hair down so that it covered her shoulders
and accentuated the white smoothness of
her breasts. Vesker pushed his letter aside
and stood up to meet her.

“Are you coming to me tonight?” she
said softly.

“Yes.”

“I’m tired of waiting, Corlu.”

He held her passionately and kissed her
until her eyes were wide with anticipa¬
tion. Then he walked with her to the
door.

“I will come in a moment,” he prom¬
ised. “I must finish a letter.”

“To a woman?” she said quickly.

"There is no other woman. You know
that.”

She leaned in the doorway and pushed
her hair back with smooth, slender fin¬
gers. Vesker lifted his hands and stepped
close to her, and then stepped back again,
laughing softly.

“As soon as I have finished the letter,”
he promised. And he closed the door
after her.

He went to the table and began to read
the letter over again, but it frightened
him. He sealed it quickly, addressed the
envelope, then turned the lamp low.

T he corridor was dark, and Renee La¬
Roque’s room was at the other end.
He tiptoed along, smiling and rubbing his

THE CRAWLING CURSE

739

hands together softly. He was quite con¬
tented. Desire was greater now than fear,
and in a moment he would forget about
Tenegai LaRoque and about the creeping
beast with five fingers.

He removed his necktie and carried it
in his hand, and began to unbutton his
shirt, because he was impatient. He was
fumbling with the fourth button when he
heard the scream.

He stopped abruptly. The scream was
human, and came from the rear of the
house where the servants’ quarters were
located. It was a vibrant shriek, full of
terror.

Vesker stood quite still, waiting for it
to come again, and after the scream he
heard some one talking in a loud, fright¬
ened voice. Then he hurried down the
corridor, and he was running when he
reached the source of the sound.

It was the room of the Malay house-
boy, Melgani. There was a light burning
on the wash-stand, and the little brown-
skinned native was kneeling foolishly on
the carpet, with his bare arms uplifted
and his face turned to the ceiling. From
his lips poured a torrent of incoherent syl¬
lables which were prayers.

Vesker stood over him and frowned
and shook him. The boy flung both arms
around him and sobbed.

"What is it?” Vesker said sullenly.

The Malay muttered in his own tongue,
pointing to the window. The window
was half-way open and__ the screen was
up. The white cotton curtains were mov¬
ing indolently in the breeze.

"What is it?” Vesker said again.
"Talk English, damn you!”

"Dem snake, Tuan!” the Malay whined.
"Dem snake him come t’rough window
affer me!”

"What snake?”

"Dem big white-color snake him hab
twitchy head!”

Vesker stiffened and looked about the
room fearfully. He said: "Where is it?”

"Him come ’cross floor! Him try climb
on bed! Me yell, Tuan!”

"Where is it, I asked you!”

The Malay gazed about, too, and shook
his head from side to side.

"Me—me not know, Tuan.”

And there was no snake. Vesker
looked; Melgani looked. Holding the
lamp, Vesker went to his knees and
searched the floor, the corners, the bed-
shadows. Rising, he searched the win¬
dow-ledge, the wash-stand, the cupboard.
There was no snake.

"Did you leave your window open?”
Vesker demanded.

"No, no, Tuan! No!”

"Well, it’s not here. It’s gone again.
Go back to bed.”

Then he went out and walked slowly
down the corridor to Renee LaRoque’s
room. But he was afraid again and he
struck four matches, one after another, to
light the way. And his hand trembled
when he opened the door.

H e thought at first that Renee La¬
Roque was lying that way for his
benefit, because she was lovely and pas¬
sionate and because she wanted him. She
lay across the bed, limp and relaxed and
nearly naked, with her hair dangling and
her white throat exposed.

But when he had shut the door and tip¬
toed toward her, he saw something else.

She was not lying there for him. She
had been flung there. Her lips were blue
and parted, and her tongue protruded.
Her throat was blotched with crimson.
Her yellow pajamas were not open be¬
cause she had opened them, but because
they had been tom open!

Vesker could not believe it. He still
expected something else. So he sat be¬
side her and caressed her body with his

740

WEIRD TALES

big hands, and not until she failed to
respond to his caresses did he realize that
she was dead.

Then he moved away from her and
stared at her, and licked his lips. He
could not understand it. He still wanted
her. She was limp and exquisite and
warm, and yet she was dead. How could
that be?

He leaned forward again to touch her,
but terror took hold of him instead. He
leaped to his feet and paced the room,
turning always to look at her. The lamp
was burning on the dressing-table, and its
pink silk shade made a bloody glow of
the light. Beyond that the window was
open. Renee had never slept with her
window open!

The hand had killed her! The hand
which had gone to the Malay’s room,
first, by mistake! God in heaven!

Vesker stared at her and felt cold blood
climbing through his legs into his body.
He could not take his eyes from her, but
he did not want her now; he was afraid
of her. She was no longer lovely; she
was something dead and cold and hor¬
rible. But he was afraid to leave her.

He stood and stared, until he saw
another face in the room. It was the
same face he had seen on the night of the
murder. It was the old native woman,
nameless and strange, hovering over the
body of Tenegai LaRoque’s wife, and
smiling—smiling triumphantly, as if she
were proud of something.

Vesker said thickly: "Who—who are
you?”

The woman looked at him. She was
only the face of a woman. She did not
answer.

"What do you want?” Vesker moaned.

But she was not there any more. There
was only the strangled body of Renee La-
Roque, and the lamp with the red silk
shade, and the open window.

And fear. The fear was a living thing
that seeped into Vesker’s brain, under¬
mining his reason. He rushed to the bed
and glared into the space where the
woman’s face had hung. He beat at the
space with his fists. He muttered, and
said meaningless things aloud. He
screamed hysterically.

Then he sank to his knees and buried
his face in Renee LaRoque’s breast, and
sobbed with terror.

4

H e did not mail the letter to Captain
Jason Fournier. When he left
Renee LaRoque and returned to his own
room, the letter was not where he had
put it. He found it on the floor, torn
into very small pieces.

He looked at the pieces a long time be¬
fore he could find courage enough to pick
them up. And then he burned them. He
was afraid of them.

"It is a good thing,” he said. "If I had
mailed the letter, there would have been
trouble. If they ever learn that Tenegai
LaRoque’s wife is dead, they will hang

He would have to hide the body. Pac¬
ing his room, back and forth for an hour,
he thought of possible hiding-places. It
was a quarter after three o’clock, his
watch said. He would have to complete
the task before daylight, or the native
servants would know.

He went back to Renee LaRoque’s
room and rolled the body in the top blan¬
ket of the bed. That was considerate, he
thought. The blanket was soft and
woolly and would not irritate. Then he
put the bundle over his shoulder and car¬
ried it upstairs to the top floor of the
house, and up a final flight of wooden
steps to the attic. It was very dark up
here, and the only light was the probing
eye of his flashlight.

THE CRAWLING CURSE

741

He carried the body to the very end of
the attic floor and laid it there. Then he
held the flashlight in his hand and
pointed its circular glare above him, to
where three large cross-beams supported
the sloping roof. One of those cross¬
beams was not a beam at all, but a hollow
long-box containing seven thin water-
pipes. He had opened it the first day, to
repair one of the pipes, because the Malay
servants did not know how.

He found a ladder and adjusted it care¬
fully, and carried the blanket-wrapped
body to the top of it. Resting his burden
on the first and second beams, he sat
a-straddle the third and pried the boards
loose with his fingers. The seven pipes
were of lead, and he bent them to enlarge
the space. Then he stood on the beams
and lowered the dead woman into the
opening, and replaced the boards.

"They will never know,” he said.

And he returned to his own room.

5

T wo evenings later he had dinner at
the Karnery Club, and one of his
friends said slyly:

"So you’re keeping bachelor quarters
again, Vesker. Eh?”

Vesker said: "They never stay long,
these lovely ladies.”

It was a very special occasion. A bril¬
liant young government chap was being
married tomorrow and having his last
fling tonight. Exclusively stag. Im¬
ported whisky, wine for those who pre¬
ferred it, and sufficient of both to make a
regiment drunk. The doors of the Kar¬
nery Club were closed and locked to
strangers. Every man of importance was
present.

Vesker had come by invitation. They
were sorry for him. They thought Renee
LaRoque had walked out on him and

taken the customary "silent leave.” Most
of Vesker’s women had done that eventu¬
ally.

"I suppose you’ll be moving back to the
shack, Vesker,”

The "shack” was the small residential
hotel exclusively reserved for government
bachelors.

"Temporarily,” Vesker smiled.

"Until romance wings through the win¬
dow again, eh?”

"There are many fish in the water,”
Vesker shrugged. "Of course”—and he
raised his eyebrows suggestively — "I
loved her.”

Ordinarily he would have been angry
at their persistence, but tonight he did not
mind. If they thought she had left him
of her own accord, let them think so!

He spoke of it whenever the opportu¬
nity occurred. That was the best thing to
do—make light of it. Left him? Of
course, of course! Perhaps she had re¬
ceived a message from her husband, and
had skipped off to him. These women!

"You’ve had pretty good luck with
them, Vesker. More than most of us. ”

"Ye-e-es.”

"Ever really been in love?"

"Always,” Vesker grinned.

He wanted to ask certain questions.
Captain Jason Fournier was here, and, as
a pleasant surprize. Lord Willoughby of
the British North. Willoughby knew
Borneo forward and backward. He had
made a special study of Dyak lore, and
knew every inch of the Merasi, the Upper
Barito, the black-water country, the in¬
land—everywhere. Willoughby had spent
years among the Ibans, the Penihings, the
Long-Glits, the Saputans.

But Willoughby was a hard man to talk
td. You had to lead the conversation to
him. And how could you switch it from
women to natives?

"I have one rival,” Vesker said, feeling

742

WEIRD TALES

his way along. "Heard recently about an
up-river kapala who married fourteen
women at the same time.”

"Eh?”

"Probably a huge lie. The Dyaks
don’t do that, do they, Willoughby?”

Willoughby sucked the end of his pipe
and uncrossed his legs. "It’s possible,”
he said. "What tribe was it?”

"Damned if I know. The fellow was
a Saputan, I think.”

"Hard to believe, then, unless the chap
was a blian.”

One of the younger men frowned and
said: "What?”

"A blian. Witch-doctor. Sorcerer. They
have things pretty much their own way.
If one of them wanted fourteen women,
he’d take ’em.”

"It’s a queer thing, that,” Vesker said.
"The power they’re supposed to have over
the people, I mean. Absolute tommyrot,
of course.”

"Is it?”

"Eh?”

"You’re a white man,” Willoughby
shrugged. "Being a white man, you can’t
see beyond the end of your all-important
nose.”

"You mean to say it’s not tommyrot?”

"I do, emphatically!”

"I heard a tall yarn once,” Vesker said
hesitantly, "about a chap who murdered
one of those fellows. Rather, a relative
of one.” Now he would have an answer
to his questions! Willoughby would know
and tell the honest truth. But how to ask
him? How to put the case clearly, with¬
out overstepping the bounds of discre¬
tion?

"After murdering the native,” he said
slowly, "this chap cut the body up and
buried it. And then, one night-”

One of the listeners rose, with a dry
smile, and turned out two of the three
electric lamps. The third lamp was be¬

hind Willoughby’s chair, and Willoughby
was leaning slightly forward with his face
in the amber glare of it. The rest of the
room was in shadow, made furtive and
restless and sinister by Vesker’s words.

"One night a horrible snake-like thing
crawled into the murderer’s room, for
vengeance. It was the murdered man’s
arm, with five twisted fingers on the end
of it!”

"And did it kill him?” Willoughby
asked quietly.

"I don’t-” Vesker hesitated. He

was going to say "I don’t know,” but then
he would have to answer questions. And
he wanted some one else to answer the
questions. So he said bluntly: "Yes, it
killed him.”

Willoughby nodded, and the others
watched him, waiting for his comment.
He looked at them indifferently and said:
"Well, what of it?”

"But such a thing isn't possible!” Ves¬
ker said.

"Why isn’t it?”

"Why isn’t it? Great Scott, man, a
dead man’s arm can’t crawl out of its
grave and-”

"Why not?”

"Well, how can it?”

Willoughby reached out and scratched
a match on the cover of a book which lay
on the table. He held the flame to the
bowl of his pipe and stared at Vesker
while he sucked the pipe-stem.

"With white men,” he said, "it might
be rare. Few whites know the secrets of
necromancy. But you say the murdered
man came of a sorcerer’s family. A
brother, was he?”

“I—I believe it was father and son,”
Vesker faltered. "Or mother and son.”

"Well then, the father knew of his
son’s death, and the whys of it. So he
raised the dead. You say the body was

THE CRAWLING CURSE

743

dismembered. He raised enough of it to
return the murderer’s compliment.”

"You absolutely believe in necromancy,
Willoughby?” a listener protested.

"Absolutely.”

"Seen it work?”

"A hundred times, in Saputan kam-
pongs.”

"You should have some good stories,
old chap.”

Willoughby smiled. He had a reputa¬
tion for his good stories. They were not
bedtime tales, either. They filled his lis¬
teners with nocturnal dread and very real
shudders. But men like that sort of
thing.

"I’ll tell you one,” Willoughby said.
"It’s not pleasant.”

Creaking rockers filled the room with
suggestive sound as the men drew closer.
A door opened and closed, and a new¬
comer said: "What the devil!” Jason
Fournier silenced him with a curt word
and made room for him. There was no
other sound after that, except the breath¬
ing of many men and the bubbling noise
of Willoughby’s pipe. The lamplight
was yellow and feeble.

“Tt happened in Ola-Baong, on the
A Upper Barito,” Willoughby said.
"Hie village blian was a wicked old Sa¬
putan named Merningi. He had a partic¬
ular grudge against a chap who had run
off with his favorite woman.”

Vesker stared. Behind Willoughby’s
chair a mist was forming. It was ciga¬
rette smoke, of course—or pipe smoke.
But why was it taking that particular
shape? Why, in the name of God, was
it becoming a woman’s face?

"The Saputans, you know,” Willougnby
said, "have a particularly gruesome form
of necromancy which leads a man to hor¬
rible death. They dress a corpse in the
d*thes ot the intended victim and hide it

away in the jungle, to rot. As the corpse
decays, so does the victim. I’ve known
men to go stark mad looking for the Hid¬
ing-place, to avoid such a death.”

Vesker’s fingers were white and bony
on the arm of his chair. The shape be¬
hind Willoughby’s head was fully mate¬
rialized now, and hideously clear. It was
the same shape, the same face—the same
sinister old woman! Great God, was he
the only one who could see it? Were the
others all blind?

"Merningi, the blian," Willoughby said,
"obtained the body of an old woman who
had died of beri-beri, and dressed it in the
clothes of his intended victim. Then he
toted it into the jungle and secreted it
there.”

But Willoughby was not saying that!
Willoughby was no longer there! His
face was the woman’s face, with boring
black eyes and withered lips. And his
body was the body of a nearly naked Sa¬
putan woman, clad in dirty gray sarong
and grass sandals! In God’s name, could
the others not see it?

"The next day the victim took sick.
There was no reason for it; he simply
became ill. He didn’t know what Mer¬
ningi had done, you see; so he couldn’t
help himself. Had he known, he might
have found the body and ripped his
clothes off it in time to break the connec¬
tion. But he became violently ill the sec¬
ond day, and on the fourth day he began
to rot.”

Vesker was unable to cry out. He
cursed himself for being an idiot. There
was no woman there! How under heaven
could any woman be sitting there when
Willoughby was occupying the chair? He
closed his eyes and opened them again,
and the woman was looking straight at
him, smiling significantly.

"The fellow died. He simply rotted
away until the life was gone out of his

744

WEIRD TALES

body. I was with him when he gave up
the ghost.”

There was silence. Vesker leaped to
his feet and cried harshly: "Stop it! Good
God, stop it!”

Then one of the younger men turned
on the lights and Willoughby, sitting in
the chair, said with a dry smile:

"You asked for it, old man. Have a
drink.”

And the native woman was not there.
6

V esker sat up in bed and stared fear¬
fully at the thing on the floor.

He had come home late from the club,
and he had been drinking heavily. His
lips were thick and sour. His sight was
blurred. His stomach ached.

But before going to bed, he had packed
all of his clothes and possessions into two
big suit-cases, and this was his last night
in the accursed house which harbored
Renee La Roque’s dead body. A tramp
freighter, leaving Bandjermasin in the
morning, would take him to Kuching.

Climbing into bed, he had removed
his clothes and tossed them on a chair.
And now they were on the floor.

They were on the floor, and something
was dragging them!

Vesker sat and stared. He was dream¬
ing, of course. The whole horrible affair,
from beginning to end, had been the
product of his own imagination. How
could a dead man’s arm have life? How
could it crawl along, like a snake, and
drag a handful of clothes in its curled
fingers? That was madness. He was
drunk.

Besides, he had locked his door careful¬
ly and turned the latch on the window.
He looked at the window now, and it was
shut tight. Faint moonlight glowed
through it, illuminating the room. But

the door was open, and the key was lying
on the carpet!

Vesker screamed.

"I didn’t mean to do it!” he shrieked.
"I didn’t mean to!”

The hideous thing paid no attention to
him. It continued to crawl backward,
pulling the clothes after it. How in the
name of God had it gained admission?
Had it clawed its way up the door and
turned the lock with its fiendish fingers,
after poking the key loose? Was there
nothing it could not do?

But it was taking his clothes. What
for? What good were his clothes? Did
it think to imprison him in his room?
Was it as foolish as that?

Vesker watched it. It slithered back¬
ward over the threshold, into the corri¬
dor. It turned to the right. Then it was
gone.

Vesker leaped from the bed and
slammed the door shut. He had other
clothes; they were in one of the two suit¬
cases! At the club he could find a room
for the rest of the night, and in the morn¬
ing he would be far away from dead
bodies and crawling hands, and faces that
came from nowhere to leer at him.

Faces! He was on his knees, fumbling
with the suit-case, and he remembered.
He stood up, pawing his naked chest,
stood with his eyes wide and his legs stiff
as wood, huge and grotesque in loose-
fitting pajamas. From his lips came a
thick, bubbling sound.

He turned and ran to the door, and
opened it. There he stopped, because the
darkness of the corridor terrified him. He
groped back again and sat on the bed,
clawing with his fingers until the bed¬
clothes were wrinkled and sweat-stained.

"Had he known, he might have found
the body and ripped his clothes off it irt
time to break the connection , But he be* j

THE CRAWLING CURSE

745

came violently ill the second day, and on
the fourth day he began to rot."

Willoughby had said that. No, no, the
woman had said it! Almighty God, the
thing had taken his clothes! If he did
not get them back-

He rushed to the open suit-case and
pushed his hands deep into it, searching
for a flashlight. Gaining his feet, he
stood swaying. Where had the horrible
creature taken his clothes? What dead
body-

"Oh God, no!” he sobbed. "Not her!
Not up there!”

But there was no other dead body. The
thing had to have a dead body. Up there
in the attic, in awful darkness, she was
lying. Up there where he had put her, in
the wooden casing which covered the
water-pipes.

He ran to the door, and the glaring eye
of the flashlight preceded him crazily as
he groped into the corridor. The long
corridor was full of moving shapes and
suggestive sounds. It loomed over him
and under him, clutching at him as he
paced down it. He stopped twice and
looked behind him. Merciful God, why
had he hidden the body up there?

He gripped the railing with his left
hand and held the flashlight rigid before
him as he climbed the staircase. The
light only made the surrounding dark¬
ness more hideous. Below him, when he
was half-way up, a well of frightful gloom
lay waiting. Above him was the sing¬
song of the wind outside the house, and
the creak of wooden floors inside.

On the upper landing he found one of
his socks. The hand had dropped it.

H e climbed the final flight of wooden
steps, counting them subconsciously
as he went. Seven of them. Seven ter¬
rible ascents into a vault of horror. His
slippers thumped thunderously. The

hammering of his heart was even louder.

He could hear his breath whine in and
out, and at the top of the seven steps he
stopped to push the wet hair out of his
eyes. The flashlight made a ghastly yel¬
low-ringed glare over the floor. Then he
began the march of torment to the far end
of the chamber.

And then the face came.

It was the woman’s face, and it hung
before him in the light, like a shadow.
Its eyes drilled into him, and a trium¬
phant leer curled its thin lips. But it
made no attempt to stop him; it hung
always before him as he stumbled for¬
ward.

With one hand he lifted the ladder into
place, because he feared to put down the
flashlight. Above him hung the three
black cross-beams. And the face sat on
every rung, always before him, as he
ascended.

He stood swaying on the beams, high
above the floor. The ceiling sloped over
his head. Once, when he lost his balance
and clutched wildly to steady himself, the
flashlight threw a crazy figure 8 over
ceiling, floor, and wall. And the face
was always within it.

Trembling in every muscle, he lowered
himself slowly and straddled the coffin
which contained Renee LaRoque’s body.
He placed the flashlight between his legs,
so that his hands were leprously white in
the gleam of it as he leaned forward to
loosen the boards. And on the other end
of the beam, where the glare was pale,
the face sat and watched him.

The boards came loose in his fingers.
He dropped them and shuddered violent¬
ly as they clattered to the floor beneath his
perched body. One after another he let
them fall. Then he stared at the thing in
the coffin.

The face of Tenegai LaRoque’s wife
stared back at him, silent in death. His

,746

WEIRD TALES

own clothes covered her body. Her yel¬
low pajamas and the soft blanket lay neat¬
ly folded under her feet. And on the
other end of the beam, the old woman
was still watching him.

He clawed madly, raking his fingers in
dead flesh and tearing his clothes loose
from it. His own breathing was louder
than the sound of his exertions. The
flashlight made his task hideous and ter¬
rible, until the dead woman lay naked
under his outstretched hands.

Then he leaned back, with madness in
his eyes. He held the clothes in the crook
of his arm and stood erect on the beam,
rocking from side to side. He glared at
the face of the native woman and laughed
at it, and the laugh was a jangling cackle.

"You won’t kill me!” he screamed. "I
know who you are! You’re LaRoque’s
mother! You’re the sorceress! But you
won’t kill me! I’m too strong for you!”

The face sat on the end of the beam
and smiled triumphantly. It did not
answer him. When he turned the flash¬
light and walked along the beam to the
top of the ladder, it did not follow him.

He put one foot on the ladder and
started down. His left hand pressed the
crumpled death-clothes against his body.
His right hand held the light and clung
to the wooden rungs as he descended.

He reached the floor and stood sway¬
ing, and looked up triumphantly,

"You won’t get me!” he shouted.

And then he stiffened. Above him. on

the black end of the third beam, some¬
thing stirred. Vesker’s lips writhed open
to release a scream of terror. He flung
himself backward.

He fell, and the flashlight clattered
from his hand. His scream died to a
whimpering moan. On hands and knees
he clawed for the light, blindly, with his
horrified gaze riveted on the thing above
him. Then his twisted body became
rigid, and he screeched wildly.

"No! No! Don’ttouchme! Don’t-”

Above him, on the cross-beam, the
thing slowly coiled.

"Don’t touch me!” Vesker gibbered.
"Don’t—oh God, don’t!”

The thing shot out and down with the
speed of a leaping snake. It struck with
vicious strength. A white, cold arm en¬
circled Vesker’s neck. Five twisted fin¬
gers buried themselves in the flesh of his
throat.

Vesker’s screech died to a gurgle.
Wildly he staggered to his feet, clawing
with both hands at the living-dead fin¬
gers which strangled him. Cold sweat
stood out on his forehead. His eyes
opened to hideous bigness and became
white, glaring crescents. His breath
choked in his throat. His face purpled.

He stumbled toward the exit, blindly.
But he did not reach it. His legs went
limp beneath him and he sagged to the
floor And the five living-dead fingers
finished their task

(genius Loci

By CLARK ASHTON SMITH

"I saw the emergence of three
human faces that partook of the
same nebulous matter, neither

The story of a deathly horror that lurked in the scummy pond in the
meadow where old Chapman had been found dead

“TT IS a very strange place,” said
I Amberville, "but I scarcely know
how to convey the impression it
made upon me. It will all sound so sim¬
ple and ordinary. There is nothing but
a sedgy meadow, surrounded on three
sides by slopes of yellow pine. A dreary
little stream flows in from the open end,
to lose itself in a cul-de-sac of cat-tails
and boggy ground. The stream, running

slowly and more slowly, forms a stag¬
nant pool of some extent, from which
several sickly-looking alders seem to fling
themselves backward, as if unwilling to
approach it. A dead willow leans above
the pool, tangling its wan, skeleton-like
reflection with the green scum that mot¬
tles the water. There are no blackbirds,
no kildees, no dragon-flies even, such as
one usually finds in a place of that sort,
747

WEIRD TALES

[748

It is all silent and desolate. The spot is
evil—it is unholy in a way that I simply
can’t describe. I was compelled to make
a drawing of it, almost against my will,
since anything so macabre is hardly in my
line. In fact, I made two drawings. I’ll
show them to you, if you like.”

Since I had a high opinion of Amber-
ville’s artistic abilities, and had long con¬
sidered him one of the foremost land¬
scape painters of his generation, I was
naturally eager to see the drawings. He,
however, did not even pause to await
my avowal of interest, but began at once
to open his portfolio. His facial expres¬
sion, the very movements of his hands,
were somehow eloquent of a strange mix¬
ture of compulsion and repugnance as he
brought out and displayed the two water-
color sketches he had mentioned.

I could not recognize the scene de¬
picted from either of them. Plainly it
was one that I had missed in my desultory
rambling about the foot-hill environs of
the tiny hamlet of Bowman, where, two
years before, I had purchased an unculti¬
vated ranch and had retired for the pri¬
vacy so essential to prolonged literary ef¬
fort. Francis Amberville, in the one
fortnight of his visit, through his flair
for the pictorial potentialities of land¬
scape, had doubtless grown more familiar
with the neighborhood than I. It had
been his habit to roam about in the fore¬
noon, armed with sketching-materials;
and in this way he had already found
the theme of more than one lovely paint¬
ing. The arrangement was mutually con¬
venient, since I, in his absence, was wont
to apply myself assiduously to an antique
Remington typewriter.

I examined the drawings attentively.
Both, though of hurried execution, were
highly meritorious, and showed the char¬
acteristic grace and vigor of Amberville’s
style. And yet, even at first glance, I
found a quality that was more than alien

to the spirit of his work. The elements
of the scene were those he had described.
In one picture, the pool was half hidden
by a fringe of mace-reeds, and the dead
willow was leaning across it at a prone,
despondent angle, as if mysteriously ar¬
rested in its fall toward the stagnant
waters. Beyond, the alders seemed to
strain away from the pool, exposing their
knotted roots as if in eternal effort. In
the other drawing, the pool formed the
main portion of the foreground, with the
skeleton tree looming drearily at one side.
At the water’s farther end, the cat-tails
seemed to wave and whisper among them¬
selves in a dying wind; and the steeply
barring slope of pine at the meadow’s
terminus was indicated as a wall of
gloomy green that closed in the picture,
leaving only a pale margin of autumnal
sky at the top.

All this, as the painter had said, was
ordinary enough. But I was impressed
immediately by a profound horror that
lurked in these simple elements and was
expressed by them as if by the balefully
contorted features of some demoniac
face. In both drawings, this sinister
character was equally evident, as if the
same face had been shown in profile and
front view. I could not trace the sepa¬
rate details that composed the impres¬
sion; but ever, as I looked, the abomina¬
tion of a strange evil, a spirit of despair,
malignity, desolation, leered from the
drawing more openly and hatefully. The
spot seemed to wear a macabre and Satan¬
ic grimace. One felt that it might speak
aloud, might utter the imprecations of
some gigantic devil, or the raucous deri¬
sion of a thousand birds of ill omen. The
evil conveyed was something wholly out¬
side of humanity—more ancient than
man. Somehow—fantastic as this will
seem—the meadow had the air of a vam¬
pire, grown old and hideous with unut¬
terable infamies. Subtly, indefinably, it

GENIUS LOCI

749

thirsted for other things than the slug¬
gish trickle of water by which it was fed.

“VST here is the place?” I asked, after

VV a minute or two of silent inspec¬
tion. It was incredible that anything of
the sort could really exist—and equally
incredible that a nature so robust as Am-
berville should have been sensitive to its
quality.

"It’s in the bottom of that abandoned
ranch, a mile or less down the little road
toward Bear River,” he replied. "You
must know it. There’s a small orchard
about the house, on the upper hillside;
but the lower portion, ending in that
meadow, is all wild land.”

I began to visualize the vicinity in
question. "Guess it must be the old
Chapman place,” I decided. "No other
ranch along that road would answer
your specifications.”

"Well, whoever it belongs to, that
meadow is the most horrible spot I have
ever encountered. I’ve known other land¬
scapes that had something wrong with
them, but never anything like this.”

"Maybe it’s haunted,” I said, half in
jest. "From your description, it must be
the very meadow where old Chapman
was found dead one morning by his
youngest daughter. It happened a few
months after I moved here. He was sup¬
posed to have died of heart failure. His
body was quite cold, and he had proba¬
bly been lying there all night, since the
family had missed him at supper-time.
I don’t remember him very clearly, but
I remember that he had a reputation for
eccentricity. For some time before his
death, people thought he was going mad.
I forget the details. Anyway, his wife
and children left, not long after he died,
and no one has occupied the house or
cultivated the orchard since. It was a
commonplace rural tragedy.”

"I’m not much of a believer in spooks,”
observed Amberville, who seemed to have
taken my suggestion of haunting in a
literal sense. "Whatever the influence
is, it’s hardly of human origin. Come to
think of it, though, I received a very silly
impression once or twice—the idea that
some one was watching me while I did
those drawings. Queer—I had almost
forgotten that, till you brought up the pos¬
sibility of haunting. I seemed to see him
out of the tail of my eye, just beyond the
radius that I was putting into the pic¬
ture: a dilapidated old scoundrel with
dirty gray whiskers and an evil scowL
It’s odd, too, that I should have gotten
such a definite conception of him, with¬
out ever seeing him squarely. I thought
it was a tramp who had strayed into the
meadow bottom. But when I turned to
give him a level glance, he simply wasn’t
there. It was as if he melted into the
miry ground, the cat-tails, the sedges.”

"That isn’t a bad description of Chap¬
man,” I said. ”1 remember his whiskers
—they were almost white, except for the
tobacco juice. A battered antique, if
there ever was one—and very unamiable,
too. He had a poisonous glare toward
the end, which no doubt helped along
the legend of his insanity. Some of the
tales about him come back to me now.
People said that he neglected the care of
his orchard more and more. Visitors
used to find him in that lower meadow,
standing idly about and staring vacantly
at the trees and water. Probably that
was one reason they thought he was los¬
ing his mind. But I’m sure I never heard
that there was anything unusual or queer
about the meadow, either at the time of
Chapman’s death, or since. It’s a lonely
spot, and I don’t imagine that any one
ever goes there now.”

"I stumbled on it quite by accident,”
said Amberville. "The place isn’t visible
from the road, on account of the thick

750

WEIRD TALES

pines. . . . But there’s another odd thing:
I went out this morning with a very
strong and clear intuition that I might
find something of uncommon interest. I
made a bee-line for that meadow, so to
speak; and I’ll have to admit that the
intuition justified itself. The place repels
me—but it fascinates me, too. I’ve sim¬
ply got to solve the mystery, if it has a
solution,” he added, with a slightly de¬
fensive air. "I’m going back early to¬
morrow, with my oils, to start a real
painting of it.”

I was surprized, knowing that predi¬
lection of Amberville for scenic brilliance
and gayety which had caused him to be
likened to Sorolla. "The painting will
be a novelty for you,” I commented. "I’ll
have to come and take a look at the place
myself, before long. It should really be
more in my line than yours. There ought
to be a weird story in it somewhere, if
it lives up to your drawings and de¬
scription.”

S everal days passed. I was deeply
preoccupied, at the time, with the
toilsome and intricate problems offered
by the concluding chapters of a new
novel; and I put off my proposed visit
to the meadow discovered by Amberville.
My friend, on his part, was evidently en¬
grossed by his new theme. He sallied
forth each morning with his easel and
oil-colors, and returned later each day,
forgetful of the luncheon-hour that had
formerly brought him back from such
expeditions. On the third day, he did not
reappear till sunset. Contrary to his cus¬
tom, he did not show me what he had
done, and his answers to my queries re¬
garding the progress of the picture were
somewhat vague and evasive. For some
reason, he was unwilling to talk about
it. Also, he was apparently loth to dis¬
cuss the meadow itself, and in answer to
direct questions, merely reiterated in an

absent and perfunctory manner the ac¬
count he had given me following his dis¬
covery of the place. In some mysterious
way that I could not define, his attitude
seemed to have changed.

There were other changes, too. He
seemed to have lost his usual blitheness.
Often I caught him frowning intently,
and surprized the lurking of some equiv¬
ocal shadow in his frank eyes. There
was a moodiness, a morbidity, which, as
far as our five years’ friendship enabled
me to observe, was a new aspect of his
temperament. Perhaps, if I had not been
so preoccupied with my own difficulties, I
might have wondered more as to the
causation of his gloom, which I attrib¬
uted readily enough at first to some tech¬
nical dilemma that was baffling him.
He was less and less the Amberville that
I knew; and on the fourth day, when he
came back at twilight, I perceived an
actual surliness that was quite foreign to
his nature.

"What’s wrong?” I ventured to in¬
quire. "Have you struck a snag? Or is
old Chapman's meadow getting on your
nerves with its ghostly influences?”

He seemed, for once, to make an effort
to throw off his gloom, his taciturnity and
ill humor.

"It’s the infernal mystery of the thing,”
he declared. "I’ve simply got to solve it,
in one way or another. The place has an
entity of its own—an indwelling person¬
ality. It’s there, like the soul in a human
body, but I can’t pin it down or touch it.
You know that I’m not superstitious—
but, on the other hand, I’m not a bigoted
materialist, either; and I’ve run across
some odd phenomena in my time. That
meadow, perhaps, is inhabited by what
the ancients called a Genius Loci. More
than once, before this, I have suspected
that such things might exist—might re¬
side, inherent, in some particular spot.

GENIUS LOCI

751

But this is the first time that I’ve had rea¬
son to suspect anything of an actively ma¬
lignant or inimical nature. The other
influences, whose presence I have felt,
were benign in some large, vague, im¬
personal way—or were else wholly indif¬
ferent to human welfare—perhaps obliv¬
ious of human existence. This thing,
however, is hatefully aware and watchful:
I feel that the meadow itself — or the
force embodied in the meadow—is scruti¬
nizing me all the time. The place has
the air of a thirsty vampire, waiting to
drink me in somehow, if it can. It is a
cul-de-sac of everything evil, in which an
unwary soul might well be caught and
absorbed. But I tell you, Murray, I can’t
keep away from it.”

"It looks as if the place were getting
you,” I said, thoroughly astonished by his
extraordinary declaration, and by the air
of fearful and morbid conviction with
which he uttered it.

Apparently he had not heard me, for
he made no reply to my observation.
"There’s another angle,” he went on,
with a feverish tensity in his voice. "You
remember my impression of an old man
lurking in the background and watching
me, on my first visit. Well, I have seen
him again, many times, out of the corner
of my eye; and during the last two days,
he has appeared more directly, though in
a queer, partial way. Sometimes, when I
am studying the dead willow very intent¬
ly, I see his scowling filthy-bearded face
as a part of the bole. Then, again, it
will float among the leafless twigs, as if
it had been caught there. Sometimes a
knotty hand, a tattered coat-sleeve, will
emerge through the mantling algae in the
pool, as if a drowned body were rising to
the surface. Then, a moment later—or
simultaneously—there will be something
of him among the alders or the cat-tails.
These apparitions are always brief, and

when I try to scrutinize them closely, they
melt like films of vapor into the sur¬
rounding scene. But the old scoundrel,
whoever or whatever he may be, is a sort
of fixture. He is no less vile than every¬
thing else about the place, though I feel
that he isn’t the main element of the vile¬
ness.”

"Good Lord!” I exclaimed. "You cer¬
tainly have been seeing things. If you
don’t mind, I’ll come down and join you
for a while, tomorrow afternoon. The
mystery begins to inveigle me.”

"Of course I don’t mind. Come
ahead.” His manner, all at once, for no
tangible reason, had resumed the unnat¬
ural taciturnity of the past four days. He
gave me a furtive look that was sullen
and almost unfriendly. It was as if an
obscure barrier, temporarily laid aside,
had again risen between us. The shad¬
ows of his strange mood returned upon
him visibly; and my efforts to continue
the conversation were rewarded only
by half-surly, half-absent monosyllables.
Feeling an aroused concern, rather than
any offense, I began to note, for the first
time, the unwonted pallor of his face, and
the bright, febrile luster of his eyes. He
looked vaguely unwell, I thought, as if
something of his exuberant vitality had
gone out of him, and had left in its place
an alien energy of doubtful and less
healthy nature. Tacitly, I gave up any
attempt to bring him back from the
secretive twilight into which he had with¬
drawn. For the rest of the evening, I
pretended to read a novel, while Arnber-
ville maintained his singular abstraction.
Somewhat inconclusively, I puzzled over
the matter till bed-time. I made up my
mind, however, that I would visit Chap¬
man’s meadow. I did not believe in the
supernatural, but it seemed apparent that
the place was exerting a deleterious influ¬
ence upon Amberville.

752

WEIRD TALES

T he next morning, when I arose, my
Chinese servant informed me that
the painter had already breakfasted and
had gone out with his easel and colors.
This further proof of his obsession
troubled me; but I applied myself rigor¬
ously to a forenoon of writing.

Immediately after luncheon, I drove
down the highway, followed the narrow
dirt road that branched off toward Bear
River, and left my car on the pine-thick
hill above the old Chapman place.
Though I had never visited the meadow,
I had a pretty clear idea of its location.
Disregarding the grassy, half-obliterated
road into the upper portion of the prop¬
erty, I struck down through the woods
into the little blind valley, seeing more
than once, on the opposite slope, the
dying orchard of pear and apple trees,
and the tumbledown shanty that had be¬
longed to the Chapmans.

It was a warm October day; and the
serene solitude of the forest, the autumnal
softness of light and air, made the idea
of anything malign or sinister seem im¬
possible. When I came to the meadow
bottom, I was ready to laugh at Amber-
ville’s notions; and the place itself, at
first sight, merely impressed me as being
rather dreary and dismal. The features
of the scene were those that he had de¬
scribed so clearly, but I could not find the
open evil that had leered from the pool,
the willow, the alders and the cat-tails in
his drawings.

Amberville, with his back toward me,
was seated on a folding stool before his
easel, which he had placed among the
plots of dark green wire-grass in the open
ground above the pool. He did not seem
to be working, however, but was staring
intently at the scene beyond him, while a
loaded brush drooped idly in his fingers.
The sedges deadened my footfalls; and he
did not hear me as I drew near.

With much curiosity, I peered over his
shoulder at the large canvas on which he
had been engaged. As far as I could tell,
the picture had already been carried to a
consummate degree of technical perfec¬
tion. It was an almost photographic ren¬
dering of the scummy water, the whitish
skeleton of the leaning willow, the un¬
healthy, half-disrooted alders, and the
cluster of nodding mace-reeds. But in it
I found the macabre and demoniac spirit
of the sketches: the meadow seemed to
wait and watch like an evilly distorted
face. It was a deadfall of malignity and
despair, lying apart from the autumn
world around it; a plague-spot of nature,
for ever accursed and alone.

Again I looked at the landscape itself
—and saw that the spot was indeed as
Amberville had depicted it. It wore the
grimace of a mad vampire, hateful and
alert! At the same time, I became dis¬
agreeably conscious of the unnatural si¬
lence. There were no birds, no insects,
as the painter had said; and it seemed
that only spent and dying winds could
ever enter that depressed valley-bottom.
The thin stream that lost itself in the
boggy ground was like a soul that went
down to perdition. It was part of the
mystery, too; for I could not remember
any stream on the lower side of the bar¬
ring hill that would indicate a subterra¬
nean outlet

Amberville’s intentness, and the very
posture of his head and shoulders, were
like those of a man who has been mes¬
merized. I was about to make my pres¬
ence known to him; but at that instant
there came to me the apperception that
we were not alone in the meadow. Just
beyond the focus of my vision, a figure
seemed to stand in a furtive attitude, as
if watching us both. I whirled about—
and there was no one. Then I heard a
startled cry from Amberville, and turned

GENIUS LOCI

753

to find him staring at me. His features
wore a wild look of terror and surprize,
which had not wholly erased a hypnotic
absorption.

"My God!” he said. "I thought you
were the old man!”

I can not be sure whether anything
more was said by either of us. I have,
however, the impression of a blank
silence. After his single exclamation of
surprize, Amberville seemed to retreat
into an impenetrable abstraction, as if he
were no longer conscious of my presence;
as if, having identified me, he had forgot¬
ten me at once. On my part, I felt a
weird and overpowering constraint. That
infamous, eery scene depressed me be¬
yond measure. It seemed that the boggy
bottom was trying to drag me down in
some intangible way. The boughs of the
sick alders beckoned. The pool, over
which the bony willows presided like an
arboreal Death, was wooing me foully
with its stagnant waters.

Moreover, apart from the ominous at¬
mosphere of the scene itself, I was pain¬
fully aware of a further change in Am¬
berville—a change that was an actual
alienation. His recent mood, whatever it
was, had strengthened upon him enor¬
mously: he had gone deeper into its mor¬
bid twilight, and was lost to the blithe
and sanguine personality I had known.
It was as if an incipient madness had
seized him; and the possibility of this ter¬
rified me.

In a slow, somnambulistic manner,
without giving me a second glance, he be¬
gan to work at his painting, and I watched
him for a while, hardly knowing what to
do or say. For long intervals he would
stop and peer with dreamy intentness at
some feature of the landscape. I con¬
ceived the bizarre idea of a growing kin¬
ship, a mysterious rapport between Am¬
berville and the meadow. In some intan¬

gible way, it seemed as if the place had
taken something from his very soul—and
had given something of itself in exchange.
He wore the air of one who participates
in some unholy secret, who has become
the acolyte of an unhuman knowledge.
In a flash of horrible definitude, I saw the
place as an actual vampire, and Amber¬
ville as its willing victim.

How long I remained there, I can not
say. Finally I stepped over to him and
shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"You’re working too hard,” I said.
"Take my advice, and lay off for a day or
two.”

He turned to me with the dazed look
of one who is lost in some narcotic dream.
This, very slowly, gave place to a sullen,
evil anger.

"Oh, go to hell!” he snarled. "Can’t
you see that I’m busy?”

I left him then, for there seemed noth¬
ing else to do under the circumstances.
The mad and spectral nature of the whole
affair was enough to make me doubt my
own reason. My impressions of the mead¬
ow— and of Amberville—were tainted
with a delirious horror such as I had never
before felt in any moment of waking life
and normal consciousness.

At the bottom of the slope of yellow
pine, I turned back with repugnant curi¬
osity for a parting glance. The painter
had not moved, he was still confronting
the malignant scene like a charmed bird
that faces a lethal serpent. Whether or
not the impression was a double optic
image, I have never been sure: but at that
instant I seemed to discern a faint, unholy
aura, neither light nor mist, that flowed
and wavered about the meadow, preserv¬
ing the outlines of the willow, the alders,
the reeds, the pool. Stealthily it appeared
to lengthen, reaching toward Amberville
like ghostly arms. The whole image was
extremely tenuous, and may well have

754

WEIRD TALES

been an illusion; but it sent me shudder¬
ing into the shelter of the tall, benignant
pines.

T he remainder of that day, and the
evening that followed, were tinged
with the shadowy horror I had found in
Chapman’s meadow. I believe that I
spent most of the time in arguing vainly
with myself, in trying to convince the
rational part of my mind that all I had
seen and felt was utterly preposterous. I
could arrive at no conclusion, other than
a conviction that Amberville’s mental
health was endangered by the damnable
thing, whatever it was, that inhered in
the meadow. The malign personality of
the place, the impalpable terror, mystery
and lure, were like webs that had been
woven upon my brain, and which I could
not dissipate by any amount of conscious
effort.

I made two resolves, however: one was,
that I should write immediately to Am¬
berville’s fiancee, Miss Avis Olcott, and
invite her to visit me as a fellow-guest of
the artist during the remainder of his stay
at Bowman. Her influence, I thought,
might help to counteract whatever was af¬
fecting him so perniciously. Since I knew
her fairly well, the invitation would not
seem out of the way. I decided to say
nothing about it to Amberville: the el¬
ement of surprize, I hoped, would be
especially beneficial.

My second resolve was, that I should
not again visit the meadow myself, if I
could avoid it. Indirectly—for I knew
the folly of trying to combat a mental ob¬
session openly—I should also try to dis¬
courage the painter’s interest in the place,
and divert his attention to other themes.
Trips and entertainments, too, could be
devised, at the minor cost of delaying my
own work.

The smoky autumn twilight overtook

me in such meditations as these; but Am¬
berville did not return. Horrible premoni¬
tions, without coherent shape or name,
began to torment me as I waited for him.
The night darkened; and dinner grew
cold on the table. At last, about nine
o'clock, when I was nerving myself to go
out and hunt for him, he came in hur¬
riedly. He was pale, dishevelled, out of
breath; and his eyes held a painful glare,
as if something had frightened him be¬
yond endurance.

He did not apologize for his lateness;
nor did he refer to my own visit to the
meadow-bottom. Apparently he had for¬
gotten the whole episode—had forgotten
his rudeness to me.

"I’m through!” he cried. "I’ll never
go back again — never take another
chance. That place is more hellish at
night than in the daytime. I can’t tell
you what I’ve seen and felt—I must for¬
get it, if I can. There’s an emanation—
something that comes out openly in the
absence of the sun, but is latent by day.
It lured me, it tempted me to remain this
evening — and it nearly got me. . . .
God! I didn’t believe that such things
were possible—that abhorrent compound
of-” He broke off, and did not fin¬

ish the sentence. His eyes dilated, as if
with the memory of something too awful
to be described. At that moment, I re¬
called the poisonously haunted eyes of
old Chapman, whom I had sometimes
met about the hamlet. He had not inter¬
ested me particularly, since I had deemed
him a common type of rural character,
with a tendency to some obscure and un¬
pleasant aberration. Now, when I saw
the same look in the eyes of a sensitive
artist, I began to wonder, with a shiver¬
ing speculation, whether Chapman too
had been aware of the weird evil that
dwelt in his meadow. Perhaps, in some
way that was beyond human comprehen-

GENIUS LOCI

755

sion, he had been its victim. . . He
had died there; and his death had not
seemed at all mysterious. But perhaps,
in the light of all that Amberville and I
had perceived, there was more in the mat¬
ter than any one had suspected.

"Tell me what you saw,” I ventured to
suggest.

At the question, a veil seemed to fall
between us, impalpable but tenebrific.
He shook his head morosely and made
no reply. The human terror, which per¬
haps had driven him back toward his
normal self, and had made him almost
communicative for the nonce, fell away
from Amberville. A shadow that was
darker than fear, an impenetrable alien
umbrage, again submerged him. I felt
a sudden chill, of the spirit rather than
the flesh; and once more there came to me
the outr6 thought of his growing kinship
with the ghoulish meadow. Beside me,
in the lamplit room, behind the mask of
his humanity, a thing that was not wholly
human seemed to sit and wait.

O F the nightmarish days that fol¬
lowed, I shall offer only a summary.
It would be impossible to convey the
eventless, fantasmal horror in which we
dwelt and moved.

I wrote immediately to Miss Olcott,
pressing her to pay me a visit during Am-
berville’s stay, and, in order to insure
acceptance, I hinted obscurely at my con¬
cern for his health and my need of her
coadjutation. In the meanwhile, waiting
her answer, I tried to divert the artist by
suggesting trips to sundry points of scenic
interest in the neighborhood. These sug¬
gestions he declined, with an aloof curt¬
ness, an air that was stony and cryptic
rather than deliberately rude. Virtually,
he ignored my existence, and made it
more than plain that he wished me to
leave him to his own devices. This, in

despair, I finally decided to do, pending
the arrival of Miss Olcott. He went out
early each morning, as usual, with his
paints and easel, and returned about sun¬
set or a little later. He did not tell me
where he had been; and I refrained from
asking.

Miss Olcott came on the third day fol¬
lowing my letter, in the afternoon. She
was young, lissome, ultra-feminine, and
was altogether devoted to Amberville. In
fact, I think she was a little in awe of him.
I told her as much as I dared, and warned
her of the morbid change in her fiance,
which I attributed to nervousness and
overwork. I simply could not bring my¬
self to mention Chapman’s meadow and
its baleful influence: the whole thing was
too unbelievable, too fantasmagoric, to be
offered as an explanation to a modem
girl. When I saw the somewhat help¬
less alarm and bewilderment with which
she listened to my story, I began to wish
that she were of a more wilful and de¬
termined type, and were less submissive
toward Amberville than I surmised her
to be. A stronger woman might have
saved him; but even then I began to doubt
whether Avis could do anything to com¬
bat the imponderable evil that was en¬
gulfing him.

A heavy crescent moon was hanging
like a blood-dipped horn in the twilight
when he returned. To my immense re¬
lief, the presence of Avis appeared to have
a highly salutary effect. The very moment
that he saw her, Amberville came out of
the singular eclipse that had claimed him,
as I feared, beyond redemption, and was
almost his former affable self. Perhaps
it was all make-believe, for an ulterior
purpose; but this, at the time, I could not
suspect. I began to congratulate myself
on having applied a sovereign remedy.
The girl, on her part, was plainly relieved;
though I saw her eyeing him in a slightly

i756

WEIRD TALES

hurt and puzzled way, when he some¬
times fell for a short interval into moody
abstraction, as if he had temporarily for¬
gotten her. On the whole, however,
there was a transformation that appeared
no less than magical, in view of his recent
gloom and remoteness. After a decent
interim, I left the pair together, and re¬
tired.

I rose very late the next morning, hav¬
ing overslept. Avis and Amberville, I
learned, had gone out together, carrying
a lunch which my Chinese cook had pro¬
vided. Plainly he was taking her along
on one of his artistic expeditions; and I
augured well for his recovery from this.
Somehow, it never occurred to me that
he had taken her to Chapman’s meadow.
The tenuous, malignant shadow of the
whole affair had begun to lift from my
mind; I rejoiced in a lightened sense of
responsibility; and, for the first time in a
week, was able to concentrate clearly on
the ending of my novel.

The two returned at dusk, and I saw
immediately that I had been mistaken on
more points than one. Amberville had
again retired into a sinister, saturnine re¬
serve. The girl, beside his looming height
and massive shoulders, looked very small,
forlorn — and pitifully bewildered and
frightened. It was as if she had encoun¬
tered something altogether beyond her
comprehension, something with which
she was humanly powerless to cope.

Very little was said by either of them.
They did not tell me where they had
been; but, for that matter, it was unneces¬
sary to inquire. Amberville’s taciturnity,
as usual, seemed due to an absorption in
some dark mood or sullen revery. But
Avis gave me the impression of a dual
constraint—as if, apart from some en¬
thralling terror, she had been forbidden to
speak of the day’s events and experiences.
I knew that they had gone to that accursed

meadow; but I was far from sure whether
Avis had been personally conscious of
the weird and baneful entity of the place,
or had merely been frightened by the
unwholesome change in her lover beneath
its influence. In either case, it was obvi¬
ous that she was wholly subservient to
him. I began to damn myself for a fool
in having invited her to Bowman —
though the true bitterness of my regret
was still to come.

A week went by, with the same daily
excursions of the painter and
his fiancee—the same baffling, sinister
estrangement and secrecy in Amberville
—the same terror, helplessness, constraint
and submissiveness in the girl. How it
would all end, I could not imagine; but I
feared, from the ominous alteration of his
character, that Amberville was heading
for some form of mental alienation, if
nothing worse. My offers of entertain¬
ments and scenic journeys were rejected
by the pair; and several blunt efforts to
question Avis were met by a wall of
almost hostile evasion which convinced
me that Amberville had enjoined her to
secrecy — and had perhaps, in some
sleightful manner, misrepresented my
own attitude toward him.

"You don’t understand him,” she said,
repeatedly. "He is very temperamental.”

The whole affair was a maddening
mystery, but it seemed more and more
that the girl herself was being drawn,
either directly or indirectly, into the same
fantasmal, evil web that had enmeshed
the artist.

I surmised that Amberville had done
several new pictures of the meadow; but
he did not show them to me, nor even
mention them. My own impressions of
the place, as time went on, assumed an
unaccountable vividness that was almost
hallucinatory. The incredible idea of

GENIUS LOCI

757

some inherent force or personality, ma¬
levolent and even vampirish, became an
unavowed conviction against my will.
The place haunted me like a fantasm,
horrible but seductive. I felt an impel¬
ling morbid curiosity, an unwholesome
desire to visit it again, and fathom, if
possible, its enigma. Often I thought of
Amberville’s notion about a Genius Loci
that dwelt in the meadow, and the hints
of a human apparition that was somehow
associated with the spot. Also, I won¬
dered what it was that the artist had seen
on the one occasion when he had lin¬
gered in the meadow after nightfall, and
had returned to my house in driven ter¬
ror. It seemed that he had not ventured
to repeat the experiment, in spite of his
obvious subjection to the unknown lure.

The end came, abruptly and without
premonition. Business had taken me to
the county seat, one afternoon, and I did
not return till late in the evening. A full
moon was high above the pine-dark hills.
I expected to find Avis and the painter
in my drawing-room; but they were not
there. Li Sing, my factotum, told me that
they had returned at dinner-time. An
hour later, Amberville had gone out
quietly while the girl was in her room.
Coming down a few minutes later. Avis
had shown excessive perturbation when
she found him absent, and had also left
the house, as if to follow him, without
telling Li Sing where she was going or
when she might return. All this had
occurred three hours previously; and
neither of the pair had yet reappeared.

A black and subtly chilling intuition
of evil seized me as I listened to Li
Sing’s account. All too well I surmised
that Amberville had yielded to the temp¬
tation of a second nocturnal visit to that
unholy meadow. An occult attraction,
somehow, had overcome the horror of his

first experience, whatever it had been.
Avis, knowing where he was, and perhaps
fearful of his sanity — or safety — had
gone out to find him. More and more, I
felt an imperative conviction of some peril
that threatened them both—some hideous
and innominable thing to whose power,
perhaps, they had already yielded.

Whatever my previous folly and remiss¬
ness in the matter, I did not delay now.
A few minutes of driving at precipitate
speed through the mellow moonlight
brought me to the piny edge of the Chap¬
man property. There, as on my former
visit, I left the car, and plunged headlong
through the shadowy forest. Far down,
in the hollow, as I went, I heard a single
scream, shrill with terror, and abruptly
terminated. I felt sure that the voice was
that of Avis; but I did not hear it again.

Running desperately, I emerged in the
meadow-bottom. Neither Avis nor Am¬
berville was in sight; and it seemed to
me, in my hasty scrutiny, that the place
was full of mysteriously coiling and mov¬
ing vapors that permitted only a partial
view of the dead willow and the other
vegetation. I ran on toward the scummy
pool, and nearing it, was arrested by a
sudden and twofold horror.

Avis and Amberville were floating to¬
gether in the shallow pool, with their
bodies half hidden by the mantling
masses of alga;. The girl was clasped
tightly in the painter’s arms, as if he had
carried her with him, against her will, to
that noisome death. Her face was cov¬
ered by the evil, greenish scum; and I
could not see the face of Amberville,
which was averted against her shoulder.
It seemed that there had been a struggle;
but both were quiet now, and had yielded
supinely to their doom.

It was not this spectacle alone, how¬
ever, that drove me in mad and shudder-

758

WEIRD TALES

ing flight from the meadow, without
making even the most tentative attempt to
retrieve the drowned bodies. The true
horror lay in the thing, which, from a
little distance, I had taken for the coils of
a slowly moving and rising mist. It was
not vapor, nor anything else that could
conceivably exist—that malign, luminous,
pallid Emanation that enfolded the entire
scene before me like a restless and hungri¬
ly wavering extension of its outlines—a
phantom projection of the pale and
death-like willow, the dying alders, the
reeds, the stagnant pool and its suicidal
victims. The landscape was visible
through it, as through a film; but it
seemed to curdle and thicken gradually in
places, with some unholy, terrifying activ¬
ity. Out of these curdlings, as if dis¬
gorged by the ambient exhalation, I saw
the emergence of three human faces that
partook of the same nebulous matter,
neither mist nor plasm. One of these
faces seemed to detach itself from the bole
of the ghostly willow; the second and
third swirled upward from the seething
of the phantom pool, with their bodies
trailing formlessly among the tenuous
boughs. The faces were those of old
Chapman, of Francis Amberville, and
Avis Olcott.

Behind this eery, wraith-like projection
of itself, the actual landscape leered with
the same infernal and vampirish air
which it had worn by day. But it seemed
now that the place was no longer still—
that it seethed with a malignant secret
life—that it reached out toward me with
its scummy waters, with the bony fingers

of its trees, with the spectral faces it had
spewed forth from its lethal deadfall.

Even terror was frozen within me for
a moment. I stood watching, while the
pale, unhallowed exhalation rose higher
above the meadow. The three human
faces, through a further agitation of the
curdling mass, began to approach each
other. Slowly, inexpressibly, they merged
in one, becoming an androgynous face,
neither young nor old, that melted finally
into the lengthening phantom boughs of
the willow—the hands of the arboreal
Death, that were reaching out to enfold
me. Then, unable to bear the spectacle
any longer, I started to run.

T here is little more that need be told,
for nothing that I could add to this
narrative would lessen the abominable
mystery of it all in any degree. The mead¬
ow—or the thing that dwells in the
meadow—has already claimed three vic¬
tims . . . and I sometimes wonder if it
will have a fourth. I alone, it would
seem, among the living, have guessed the
secret of Chapman’s death, and the death
of Avis and Amberville; and no one else,
apparently, has felt the malign genius of
the meadow. I have not returned there,
since the morning when the bodies of the
artist and his fiancee were removed from
the pool . . . nor have I summoned up
the resolution to destroy or otherwise dis¬
pose of the four oil paintings and two
water-color drawings of the spot that were
made by Amberville. Perhaps ... in
spite of all that deters me ... I shall
visit it again.

"One blow caused the
crushing hands to relax
from Ariel’s throat."

Vhe

< ^)wellers
in the House

By SOPHIE
WENZEL ELLIS

r A tale of Ahmad Yazij, the evil
Arabian who changed bodies at
will and perpetuated his ego
throughout the ages.

“ AND may God have mercy on your
soul.”

^ The closing words of the
death sentence rolled out solemnly in
Judge Farrington’s cavernous voice.

"And may Allah have mercy on yours!”

Ahmad Yazij, the convicted murderer,
who throughout the trial had sat in an
indifferent heap, leaped up and pointed
a shriveled brown finger at the judge.

The sudden quiet in the crowded court¬
room was more dramatic than any outcry
of horror could have been; every one
knew that the Arabian spoke with the
venom of a sorcerer pronouncing a
curse.

Judge Farrington, white and visibly
disturbed, pounded his gavel.

"Remove the prisoner!”

Two officers seized Yazij roughly and
759

760

WEIRD TALES

hurried him away. The strange man’s
shoulders shook with laughter, as though
he enjoyed a gruesome joke. At the
door he turned his brown, wizened face
and shot a parting look of hate at the
judge.

"We shall meet again, yah abu V jood!”

Throughout the trial it had been thus,
hate flashing between the benevolent
judge beloved for his mercy and the
prisoner at the bar who had not cared
whether or not he was convicted of mur¬
dering the young man who had assisted
him in the evil hideout Yazij had called
his laboratory. Frequently, to the thwart¬
ed curiosity of the audience, the judge
and Yazij had exchanged heated Arabic.
Judge Farrington was a rather profound
scholar.

From the first, it seemed that the judge
had wanted to convict Yazij, who had
not employed an attorney to defend him¬
self. The judge had appointed young
Rodney Sterrick as attorney for the de¬
fense, who was so deeply in love with
beautiful Ariel Farrington that he dared
not risk his prospects by objecting to the
impassioned vituperation that her learned
father had hurled at Yazij, and to some
of the damning questions he had asked
in his judicial cross-examination. That
was the whisper that often went around
the courtroom.

Now, after the prisoner had been taken
away, Rod said to the judge, "Why were
you so hard on the poor devil?”

Healthy color flamed angrily in the
other’s broad face.

"Poor devil! Leave off the poor. Ex¬
ecution is too good for him. My God,
Rod!” He mopped at his brow with a
moist handkerchief. "Didn’t you feel it,
too—the damnable excreta of—of in¬
humanness that fouls the very atmosphere
he breathes?”

"He’s only a very dirty old man, a
little mad, perhaps-”

"Do you know anything of Eastern
occultism? No, you don’t You didn’t
see what I saw in him, a creature whose
least crime would be the killing of the
man whose mutilated body was found
buried in that pestilential yard behind
Yazij’s den. You remember the strange
evidence of the coroner, that Vaynce’s
body, although little decayed, weighed
only forty-five pounds. Think of it! A
man fairly well-fleshed weighing so lit¬
tle! Is that natural?”

"But the coroner said he might have
had some unknown disease which wasted
the tissues mysteriously.”

The judge laughed. “Of course, you
had to have some kind of defense for
your client. Rod.”

At that moment a deputy approached
and told Rod that Yazij wished to see
him immediately, before being taken to
the penitentiary.

A few minutes later Rod went to the
jail, where the prisoner was tem¬
porarily confined. Now, as always, he
squirmed as he approached Yazij’s cell,
for about it hung a foul stench. He had
thought it resulted from the Arab’s un¬
washed flesh and clothes, but his talk
with the judge made him shiver with
dread.

"Yazij!” he called to the heap on the
cot beyond the bars.

The Arab lifted his head, revealing a
face the color of rotten leather. As he
came forward, his over-large clothes
seemed to bring the foul odor closer.
Through the bars he poked a shrunken
hand holding a folded paper.

"Meester lawyer, you have ask for no
fee —Allah hadik! But I give you fee,
eh? Here, take.”

Rod took the paper, odorous with the
stench. In good English, written evi-

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

761

dently by the jailer for Yazij’s signature,
he read:

I, Ahmad Yazij, do give to Rodney Sterrick
all my possessions and belongings, including my
most precious books, my furniture, and my equip¬
ment, all contained in my rooms at number 4 St.
Louis Court. May he select a worthy buyer who
will continue where I have ceased. I would sug¬
gest showing the lot to the honorable Judge Far¬
rington, who has knowledge of things forgotten.

Ahmad Yazij.

A wave of pity for the condemned
man swept over Rod.

' Thanks, Yazij,” he said. "But I did
not ask for a fee.”

“No. I give you fee. The honorable
judge, learning about Ahmad Yazij’s
books—and secrets—will want to buy.
Aywah!”

Rod looked uncomfortable. "I did
my best for you, Yazij.”

"Your best. Death, it is not bad; only
a moving from an old house fallen to
ruins. I move from old house before.
I move again.”

His matted eyebrows lifted enough to
let Rod see his rheumy old eyes; old, old
eyes that looked too ancient to be quite
human.

u Allah yeseelim!”

The leathery face sank among the
clothes that bundled him from neck to
feet. Without sound he turned and moved
back to the cot. Rod was dismissed.

He sought Judge Farrington again im¬
mediately, who read Yazij’s note.

"Hmmm! Have you seen the stuff yet,
Rod?”

"Only casually, when I went to his
rooms while I was getting up the de¬
fense. It is a damp, musty, unpleasant
place, full of terribly old books.”

"The books—ah!” The judge’s eyes
leaped. "You know what a bookworm
I am, Rod, especially over old Eastern
books. Have dinner with us tonight, and
then you and I shall inspect Yazij’s stuff.”

And so it was arranged. After dinner

at the Farrington home and an hour of
delight with lovely Ariel Farrington, Rod
and the judge drove to the semi-slum
section where Ahmad Yazij had made his
home above a questionable second-hand
shop.

Up dark, creaking steps that hugged
the building's moldy side they mounted
to the door that gave on a landing. Rod
unlocked the door and plunged his hand
cautiously into the darkness to reach for
the light switch. The stale air seemed
thick and slimy against his flesh.

T he room came alive suddenly under
the dim light; a room hung with
archaic maps, strewn with braziers,
bunches of dried herbs, pieces of metal,
and broken furniture. Dangling from
the ceiling and laced thickly in corners,
black cobwebs seemed trying to hide the
time-festered books that made crooked
rows against the walls.

"My God, Rod! What books!”

Judge Farrington went to one of the
disordered shelves and removed a vol¬
ume, a thick, misshapen mass of crum¬
bling leaves between yellowed parchment
covers. As he read here and there, all
the healthy color faded from his face;
but still he continued to turn the pages
with avid eagerness.

Rod looked over his shoulder. It was
written in Arabic.

"Can you really read it. Judge?”

Judge Farrington gulped hard, as
though something stuck in his throat.

"It is an ancient work on Eastern oc¬
cultism. But the strangest thing about it
is the name of the author. Ahmad Yazij,
Rod!”

"An ancestor of the Yazij we know?”
"I hope so. Listen.”

He paused to read a certain passage,
and then translated it slowly:

Each time I do move into a new House I
grow stronger and more able to conquer the other

762

WEIRD TALES

dwellers In the House, who make war with each
other and disturb the flesh. For a thousand—nay,
ten thousand years—will I work to acquire a
House to my liking, and then will I have the
power to cast out the other dwellers and have
eternal life with the one Self.

"What a lot of gibberish!’* Rod
scoffed.

"Nothing that these ancient Arabs
wrote is gibberish, Rod. Until I have
studied the entire book, of course, I can
not understand what he means, although
I have an idea.” He shivered visibly.

While the judge continued to examine
the crumbling books, Rod puzzled him¬
self over the only modern-looking thing
in the room, an appliance that slightly
resembled a spectroscope, yet much larger
than the common prism spectroscope. In¬
stead of being fitted with a flint prism,
it carried in its middle a giant vacuum
tube.

"Look here, Judge! What an anach¬
ronism! This modern instrument placed
among objects of incalculable age!”

Judge Farrington left the books and
came toward the colossal spectroscope.
But it was not the strange appliance that
claimed his attention; he paused over a
recently written manuscript lying on a
table close by. As he read, his face seemed
to grow thinner.

"Rod!” he exclaimed. "I am not sure
that I ought to dare do this, for I may
be courting destruction. But I’m going
to buy the whole lot from you, just as
Yazij suggested. There’s a strange mys¬
tery here, and I’m going to discover it.”

"What do you suspect?”

"Nothing. My mind refuses to accept
the evidence. Rod! What would you
think if you knew that half of this li¬
brary is written by Ahmad Yazij, and
that some of the books bearing his name
are hundreds of years older than others?”

"Why, I’d say that there was a long
line of Ahmad Yaziis.”

The other’s smile was sickly. "You’d
have to say that—for your sanity’s sake.
And now, you’ll sell me the stuff, won’t
you?”

And thus Judge Farrington came into
possession of all the effects of Ahmad
Yazij. He had them moved to his home
the next day, where he established an
attic den which he always kept locked.

F rom the moment that he became a
confessed disciple of the seer, or the
long line of seers who had written the
books he had bought, a subtle change
came over Judge Farrington. Rod and
every one else who came in contact with
him in the courtroom saw his kindness
and joviality change into harshness and
ill-temper, until, before a month had
passed, there was talk among the lawyers
of trying to get him impeached.

Some even whispered that his great
mind was decaying, for his favorite topic
of conversation was Ahmad Yazij. He
seemed to take an unhealthy interest in
the execution, which the governor had
set for an unusually early date after the
conviction. Ariel Farrington complained
to Rod that every moment of her father’s
spare time was spent in his den, where,
far into the night, his light burned, and
where muttering and mumbling could
be heard, as though her father were hold¬
ing conversation with some one who was
certainly not in the room with him.

And now came the day for Ahmad
Yazij to die. At dawn he went indiffer¬
ently to the electric chair. Rod, sleeping
after an uneasy night, was awakened be¬
fore six o’clock by the ringing of his tele¬
phone. Ariel was on the line.

"Can you run over immediately, Rod?
Some kind of attack has seized Father.
Just at daybreak I heard a terrible scream
from the attic. When we got the door
broken in, we found Father lying on the

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

763

floor unconscious, with a frightful look
on his face. I’ve called a doctor, but
can’t you come over and be with me un¬
til he comes? Father is still unconscious.”

"Coming!” Rod assured her. But as
he turned from the telephone, his face
was pasty-white. Why had Judge Far¬
rington received his stroke at the very
moment when Ahmad Yazij had gone
to his death?

At the Farrington home he found the
judge still unconscious, jabbering almost
constantly in broken Arabic.

Ariel, her beautiful face showing
traces of tears, seemed reluctant to be
alone a moment with the father she
adored.

"I’m afraid of him. Rod!” she con¬
fessed. "He almost doesn’t seem like
Father.”

"The doctor will bring him around
when he gets here,” Rod said cheerfully.

But the doctor’s efforts did not seem
rapidly successful. The judge still re¬
mained unconscious. He remained thus
until the sudden tense excitement of
newsboys screaming "Extry!” broke in
the street below.

"Extry paper! Stowall Vaynce alive!
Stowall Vaynce-”

"Vaynce!” shrieked Judge Farrington.
He sat up in bed and looked around him
almost calmly. "That was the man
Ahmad Yazij killed. Get me a paper.”

Rod, feeling the nearness of some hid¬
den horror, rushed out for a paper. The
headlines glared at him.

STOWALL VAYNCE

RETURNS ALIVE

HIS ALLEGED SLAYER

EXECUTED THIS MORNING

A few minutes after Ahmad Yazij had died
early this morning in the electric chair for the
murder of Stowall Vaynce, a man calling himself
Vaynce appeared at police headquarters, saying he
had just returned from a western trip. Vaynce

is being held until the body of the murdered man
has been exhumed.

R od did not finish reading, but took
. the paper to Judge Farrington, who
almost snatched it from his hands.

"Ah!” the completely recovered man
said a few minutes later. "Then I was
not wrong in what I thought I knew.
What a mystery for them to crack their
brains over!”

The chuckle he gave was so unlike the
kind, dignified man he had been a few
weeks ago that each one in the room
sought the others’ eyes uncomfortably.
It was plain that Judge Farrington did
not seem to regret even now that he had
helped to bring Ahmad Yazij to his
death.

Suddenly Rod stiffened and put a hor¬
rified hand to his nose. A foul odor,
more horrible because of its subtle vague¬
ness, began to grow in the room. It
seemed to have had immediate concep¬
tion and to gain strength with each pass¬
ing second. Instantly he recognized that
ancient putrescence, which brought terri¬
ble recollection of a leathery-faced Arab
waiting stoically for death. Judge Far¬
rington swung himself out of bed, and
the odor stirred with him, filling the
room with horror.

"I’m going to my den,” he announced
calmly. "I’m all right now.”

Even the doctor could not detain him,
and as he brushed by Rod, the young
man gasped over the cloud of stench that
seemed to flow from the very pores of
his body.

In passing, Judge Farrington gave Rod
a long, deep glance, with a whisper that
caused his scalp to stir.

"Don’t be alarmed, my lawyer. Mek~
toob!”

Accent for accent, it was as though
Ahmad Yazij had spoken.

764

[WEIRD TALES

Ariel cried out in consternation : "What
is it. Rod? You are pale as a ghost!”

And then it was plain to Rod that only
he had caught that hellish stench, and
that he alone was aware of a beginning
horror that hovered beyond the border¬
land of sanity.

He let Ariel bring him the drink he
needed badly, cautioned her to keep close
watch on her father, and then he went
to police headquarters to wait for the
first information on the Stowall Vaynce
case.

He was present at the grave when the
body was exhumed. The living Stowall
Vaynce was also present. That young
man, with frightened levity, declared he
wanted to make sure that he was really
alive. Vaynce said that he had been
the only employee of Yazij, who had
hired him as a subject for experiment
with an instrument which Yazij had
called a "soul spectroscope.” Vaynce, a
dull-witted fellow, could throw no light
on what the experiments were. He only
knew that he sometimes suffered pain in
Yazij’s laboratory, which had led him
to run away from his master and hide in
another city.

The mystery assumed new terror at
the second examination of the body.
Mark for mark, it was exactly like the
live Vaynce. Scars; hair; Bertillon meas¬
urements; finger prints; all were perfect
mates. The only difference between the
two was weight. The body weighed only
forty-five pounds, which was surprizing,
while Vaynce weighed a little over one
hundred, which also was surprizing, be¬
cause he seemed rather well-fleshed.

Puzzled medical men claimed the body
for a complete autopsy. Newspapers re¬
porting their findings stated, in the lan¬
guage of the layman, that nothing abnor¬
mal had been discovered, although one
scientist had declared that if the body

had been in a better state of preservation
he could probably have proved his opin¬
ion that almost two-thirds of its mass
was made up of air cells instead of solid
protoplasmic cells, a condition rare but
not completely unknown in a less exag¬
gerated degree.

And thus the strange matter remained
a mystery, soon forgotten. For hadn’t
Ahmad Yazij been punished for whom¬
ever he had killed?

S carcely a week after the newspapers
had stopped carrying Stowall Vaynce
news, Judge Farrington astounded the
bench and bar by resigning. He issued
a statement to the press that he wished
to retire for study and rest. Even Rod,
who called at the Farrington home almost
daily, could not learn his real reason for
forsaking the career he loved. But a few
days after the resignation, Ariel told Rod
that her father had bought a secluded
estate in an undeveloped part of the state,
where he would go into retirement with
his library.

"I’ll have to go with him Rod,” she
said, with a touch of unhappiness. "You
know, I’ve been daughter, mother and
wife to him since Mother died. I can’t
forsake him now that this queer hobby
is consuming his life.”

Rod looked down hungrily into her
exquisite face; sweet little Ariel, the sort
of girl every young man dreams of know¬
ing and loving. But it would be several
years before he had built a practise to
support a wife comfortably.

Now, when he longed to take her into
his arms and tell her that he loved her,
he only seized her hands and said mis¬
erably:

"I wish you did not have to go, Ariel.
But will you promise to write to me
every day and let me know everything
that happens—everything?”

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

765

Ariel promised, and her blue eyes
shyly promised something else, something
that he had no right to accept now. But
from the moment he saw her climb into
her father’s car to begin the journey to
their new home, terror began to shadow
him. For this restless-eyed John Farring¬
ton was certainly not the wholesome
Judge Farrington he had known with
respect and admiration. He did not even
look the same. He had lost flesh and
grown hollow of eye and jaw. Rod had
to force himself not to think that his
old friend looked a very little like the
filthy Arab whose body now lay in a
criminal’s grave.

Ariel kept her promise to write every
day. Her letters seemed cheerful enough;
for she spoke of a beautiful countryside,
of the comfort of the picturesque old
pioneer homestead they occupied, and of
her father’s deep content with their new
life. But through it all Rod thought he
detected a subtle undertone of loneliness
and uneasiness.

Several troublesome cases kept Rod so
busy that three weeks passed before he
could break away to see Ariel. His going
then was not of his own choosing. A
note from Ariel, written in nervous
fright, urged him to come immediately.
An hour later, he was driving to the re¬
mote hills which hid the Farrington re¬
treat.

Long before he approached the little
mountain town where the Farringtons
received their mail, modern roads swept
away into more densely settled regions
and left only deeply rutted clay roads
whose very impassability seemed a warn¬
ing to strangers to keep away. Elemental
nature was here, sullen, defiant, stupen¬
dously old in bare rock cliffs and narrow
streams that had eaten deep into the hills.
Life other than human was here in abun¬
dance. Crows especially were numerous*

They followed Rod’s car constantly, un¬
nerving him with their sad hunger call.
It was a lonely, desolate country for a
young girl to live in with a father who
might be a little mad.

W hen he passed through the last
settlement, the long summer after¬
noon was waning. For several miles he
saw no houses, not even the time-rotted
shacks that pocked the countryside be¬
hind. Soon he began to go down—down
into a valley that cupped a broad, shal¬
low lake. The water had a black, un¬
wholesome look, except where a stinking
green scum laid a gangrenous carpet
along the edges.

So close to the brink of this lake that
it must have received flood waters was
the Farrington house, a rambling struc¬
ture of thick, ancient logs backed by
giant evergreen trees. He no sooner saw
the house than he saw Ariel, too. She
was standing knee-deep in the water,
snatching at something that darted be¬
tween the lily pads. She did not seem
aware of him until he called to her.

"Rod!” she cried out gladly, and
leaped toward the car.

In the instant before she threw herself
into his arms, he saw that her dress was
torn and soiled. That was completely un¬
like dainty Ariel. He was surprized, too,
at the offer of her pouting red lips. He
kissed them hungrily, his first kiss. Often
he had dreamed of that kiss, but now, in
a subtle way, it was disappointing.

"So glad to see you, Roddy!” she said
lightly.

Rod held her off and looked hard at
her, the pointed, cleft-chinned face, the
blue eyes behind long curling brown
lashes. He sensed a change in her, yet
could not understand what it was.

“You don’t seem so worried,” he told
her. "By your note asking me to hurry t

766

WEIRD TALES

here, I thought you were frightened about
something.”

"My note? Foolish!” She rubbed her
cheek against his. It felt chilly and moist
against his skin. "I didn’t write you a
note telling you to come.”

"You did. What’s the matter, Ariel?”

She laughed impishly, ignoring his
question. "Look what I caught in the
lake, Rod.”

Reaching into the torn bosom of her
dress, she drew forth a tiny green water-
snake, languidly alive.

Again Rod felt vague horror, as though
an unnatural effluvium of evil had laid
a spell upon this whole strange country.

"What’s the matter with you, Ariel?
You’d put that thing in your bosom, you
who used to be afraid of a worm? You re
—you’re a different girl.”

"Silly! I’m not. I’m the same girl
that topped your root beer with soap-suds
last April Fool’s day. The same one who
stuck a pin in a rose and had you smell
it.”

Rod nodded, remembering. He also
remembered her sudden remorse over
both childish pranks. Dear little Ariel
of a dozen moods! There was a streak
of earth across one pink cheek, and a bit
of water-weed was caught between her
bare, perfect toes. Looking, Rod again
felt that prickling of his scalp. Never
had he seen this strange mood in her.
It was as though all that was elfin and
prankish in her were concentrated in the
ragged little urchin laughing up at him,
laughing from shallow, soulless eyes and
lips that were not quite warm enough
for a creature of warm human blood.

She was leading him to the house, her
bare feet flying over the ground in happy,
skipping steps. Her skirt was so torn
that he could see her round white thigh
as she moved.

“Isn’t it lonesome for you, Ariel?” he
asked.

“Not a bit. I’m helping Daddy in some
mighty interesting work. And then I
have the lake and the woods to play
about in.”

She turned to look bade at him, and he
saw that the green things about had re¬
flected their own forest tint in the eyes
that should be blue.

With an effort he pulled himself to¬
gether. He was imagining things. That
would never do. He needed all his com¬
mon sense now.

As they entered the house, he saw that
it was even older and cruder than it had
seemed from the road. In an enormous
living - room, furnished comfortably
enough with many of the appointments
that had been in the old city home, he
waited while she went for her father.

I T was many minutes before John Far¬
rington appeared, and then he stood
in the door and called out rudely and
sullenly: “Well?”

The change in the man was shocking.
He had grown so thin he was almost lost
in the clothes of former days.

"How are you. Judge?” Rod cried
heartily, coming toward his old friend
with outstretched hand, which the other
ignored.

"I’m well enough, especially when I’m
not interrupted. I’m busy now, Rod. I
can’t give you any time until after sup¬
per.” He gestured to Ariel. "Get him
something to eat, and then hurry and
join me. I need you for an hour or two.”

Turning, he left the room abruptly,
while Ariel danced away with a promise
of supper in a few minutes.

Rod felt a moment of anger. He was
half tempted to leave immediately, but
again his consciousness of latent mystery
enveloped him. He would have to re¬
main, for Ariel’s sake.

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

767

In a few minutes the girl was back
again, wheeling a tea-wagon bearing a
cold supper. She had not changed her
ragged clothes, and in this disheveled
condition joined Rod in the meal.

Rod could not shake off his overpow¬
ering sense of unreality. He felt almost
as though he were wandering in a dream.
The pixy-faced ragamuffin facing him
over the table could not be the Ariel he
had wanted to marry. She scarcely stirred
his pulses now, this pretty child-girl with
the soulless eyes.

"What is your father doing now,
Ariel?” he asked her. "Still poring over
Ahmad Yazij’s books, I suppose?”

"That—and other things.”

"For instance?”

"Mind your business, Roddy. If you
stay here long enough, you’ll find out.”
She laughed teasingly, cocking her head
birdwise and looking at him. "I suspect
he'd like to work on you, at that—gen¬
tleman, cave-man, warm-hearted boy,
cold-hearted lawyer. Oh! you’d be a
case.”

Rod found the meal singularly un¬
pleasant. Each moment he was more con¬
vinced that Ariel was changed in a way
that made him vaguely frantic with ap¬
prehension. Something he had loved in
her, some primary characteristic which
used to reach out to him and claim his
very soul, seemed to have disappeared.
It was almost as though the Ariel he had
loved were dead, and this girl before
him was only a laughing shadow that
mocked him.

His final bewilderment came when
Ariel threw herself on his knee. It was
not her conduct that surprized him, but
her lack of weight. He scarcely felt the
pressure of her body. Suddenly he
swooped her into his arms and lifted her,
and the experiment brought a cry from
him. She seemed no heavier than a baby.

Was he facing another Stowall Vaynce
mystery?

"Ariel!” he cried, putting her down
hastily. "Tell me what your father does
to you in his laboratory. Tell me!”

"Not now, old curiosity!” she teased,
patting his cheek. "You’ll find out,
though. He’s already told me that your
turn was next. Now, run and play on
the lake for an hour or two until he is
through with me for the day.”

She skipped away.

The house was suddenly repellent to
Rod. He went outside, to walk along
the lake edge. There was enough moon¬
light to make the going easy, and in a
few minutes he was enjoying the scent
of the water-lilies.

Gradually another odor began to im¬
pinge itself upon his sensibilities, a stench
so unpleasant that his nostrils quivered.
Closer to the brink he crept, to determine
whether the smell came from the night-
black waters which slapped among the
lily pads.

And then, as the odor gained strength,
terrific understanding came to him. His
horrified nostrils drank in great breaths
of the putrescence, for he had to be sure.
He could not be mistaken. Aloud he
groaned the name of the one being who
could produce that evil stench.

"Ahmad Yazij!”

God! Could he ever forget that stench
that reeked of disease and unspeakable
corruption which sullied everything the
Arab had touched? Mad fear almost sent
him shrieking back to the house, but he
controlled himself and forced his lagging
steps onward. He had to go on. He felt
that he was trailing something which he
must see and know.

H e left the trail along the bank’s
edge and went down to the slimy
mud, to stumble over sprawling cypress
knees and step into crayfish holes.

768

WEIRD TALES

As he progressed, the foul odor be¬
came an effluvium so violently repellent
that it seemed to well up from the can¬
cerous depths of an elder world. In his
hunger for more light, he used his ciga¬
rette-lighter. The feeble flame at least
guided his footsteps in the immediate
vicinity. A minute later, he was hys¬
terically glad that he had this tiny spot
of light, which saved his feet from abom¬
ination. For directly in his path, half
buried in mud and water, was a human
body.

For a moment, Rod paused, revolted.
Here lay a woman. Her white dress and
arms were coated so thickly with dried
lake silt and scum that she seemed, in
the moonlight, almost like a figure of
clay. He swept his light over the still
form. When it reached the face, his
scream echoed through the giant cedar
trees.

The woman was Ariel.

There could be no mistake, for only
her face and her golden hair were un¬
defiled by the mud. From the discolored
hue of the flesh, the body must have been
here several days. It must have been here
when he had talked to Ariel today! It
probably had been here when the note
summoning him had been written.

He did not rush away immediately,
a human revolted against a loved thing
because it had ceased to be human; he
stood there half paralyzed with the real¬
ization that he faced evil blacker than
the down-pressing night. Now that he
was close to the poor, lifeless shell to
which that compelling odor had led him,
he was conscious that the odor was gone.
Only the natural smell of the lake ooze
tainted the air, which after the foulness
of the other, seemed cleaner than the
breath of flowers.

Rod must have turned a little mad in
that shocking moment before he could

find his courage again, for he babbled
foolishly.

"Ariel alive, Ariel dead! Stowall
Vaynce alive, Stowall Vaynce dead!
Ahmad Yazij dead, Ahmad Yazij-”

His voice caught in his throat. Was
Ahmad Yazij alive? Ahmad Yazij, who
had been writing books for hundreds ot
years?

With such insane thoughts upsetting
his reason, he could not feel real grief
over the girl’s body at his feet. He was
not viewing dead Ariel, but some sinister
mystery which had no place on the earth.
He tried to bring himself to touch the
body to ascertain whether or not it was
only visionary, but his shrinking hand
was not capable of the revolting act.
Drawing off his coat, he laid it over the
muddy form, and was relieved to see
that the coat really lay over something.

Then he ran back to the house. Dark¬
ness and stillness lay over the ancient
wooden pile. Rod entered, passed through
the great living-room, and on to the lean-
to in the rear, where he saw a crack of
light coming from under the door. This
was John Farrington’s study.

He was about to knock on the door
when he heard a sound that sent quiver¬
ing terror through him.

It was Ariel’s voice, raised in a wild
protest. "I won’t! I won’t!”

"Come now!” shouted her father, "I’ll
have no stubbornness. Get over there
under the focus.”

"For God’s sake, Daddy, don’t you
see—can’t you see that you’ve destroyed
the last one? It is I now. Don’t make
me-”

Her words ended in a scream of de¬
spair.

Rod turned the door-knob frantically;
the door was locked. With Ariel’s voice
begging for mercy spurring him to des¬
peration, he flung himself against the an-
W. T—6

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

769

cient wood, and almost instantly a panel
broke in.

Father and daughter were struggling,
and just as Rod fell into the room, the
father won. His hands found the white
throat that strained away from him.

But Rod, instead of rushing in to the
assistance of the girl he loved, stood par¬
alyzed, every sense revolted against the
insane sight that abominated his eyes.

There was one Ariel struggling with her
father, and another stretched out on a
table, apparently lifeless. The body on
the table was the tattered ragamuffin he
had met earlier in the evening, the stran¬
ger in Ariel’s form who had puzzled and
distressed him. The other Ariel, fighting
for her life with the shrunken-faced crea¬
ture who shrieked Arabic curses, was the
well-groomed girl he hoped to marry.

In that dreadful moment of revelation,
Rod knew that he did not face the real
John Farrington, but the withered shell
of his body housing a fiend. He seized
the first object that his hands touched, a
heavy metal tube. One blow from this
caused the crushing hands to relax in¬
stantly from Ariel’s throat. With a gentle
sigh, the man who looked like a strange
blending of John Farrington and Ahmad
Yazij fell to the floor.

Rod gave all his attention to Ariel.
She was not seriously injured, and after
a thirsty draft of water which tortured
her bruised throat, she was able to speak.

"Is he unconscious. Rod? Really un¬
conscious?’’

"Yes.”

"Then hurry! I have a dreadful task
to perform, and you must help.”

Without stopping to explain, she bus¬
ied herself with the giant spectroscope¬
like appliance that Rod recognized as be¬
ing the one which had come from Ahmad
Yazij. After Ariel had made certain ad¬
justments, she called to Rod.

W. T.—7

"Will you lift him, Rod, to that high
chair in front of the soul spectroscope?”

She was white-faced and so excited
that her blue eyes were nearly black.
Working under her directions, Rod placed
the inert body in the chair, and rolled
the chair into the exact center of a pen-
tacle marked upon the floor with a red¬
dish-brown substance suspiciously like
dried blood.

"Don’t step into the symbol,” she
warned, her voice high-pitched with ill-
concealed dread.

As Rod observed her, he discovered
that something in her voice, some half-
perceived expression in her blue eyes,
were proof that here was the old Ariel
and not the soulless girl of the after¬
noon, who apparently lay lifeless in this
very room.

At last everything was in readiness to
Ariel’s liking. She walked over to Rod
and slipped her hand into his with al¬
most child-like trust and simplicity.

"I’m sorry I had to force you to view
what you’re going to see, Rod. I asked
you to come only because I need you so.”

And this was the girl in the image of
her who that afternoon had denied writ¬
ing him to come!

TJ od pressed the hand in his. "I’m with
LV you to the last drop of my blood,
Ariel. And I’m ready for anything that
is to take place, for I know that we’re
both experiencing what was never in¬
tended for normal human beings to see.”

"You’ll not be harmed,” she prom¬
ised, "if you keep hold of your nerves
and your reason.”

She swung into place the long tube
which somewhat resembled the collimator
on the ordinary spectroscope. Instead of
the usual lens in the end, the tube was
fitted with an arrangement of silvery
wires twisted into a geometrical pattern

770

WEIRD TALES

so singular that Rod felt a creeping of
his scalp when he looked at it. Only a
moment of gazing gave him the sensation
that those insanely angled wires were cut¬
ting through his flesh, through his very
mind, until, tearing his eyes away, he
realized that he had had a glimpse of
forms stolen from some elder world, per¬
haps from another dimension of space
and time.

"Go to the other end of the room,
Rod, and watch.”

Rod obeyed, his eyes again seeking the
silver-wired tube that was focused on
John Farrington’s body, which now was
animated with returning consciousness.

Ariel did something to the soul spec¬
troscope which caused a blinding white
light to pour from the silver wires. The
radiance, in long pale beams, was inter¬
laced in the same dreadful pattern that
the wires made. Reaching out to the
convulsed body of John Farrington, the
rays seemed to slash through him like
knives of steel.

Suddenly from the man’s open mouth
poured a stream of black smoke so foul
that both Rod and Ariel clapped their
hands to their mouths. The stench of
Ahmad Yazij; instantly Rod recognized
it, sensing it issuing from a foul source
rotten with age and corruption. The
smoke began to shape itself into a form,
a man; a black wraith with features and
eyes that were readily recognizable. Rod
and Ariel clung together, for Ahmad
Yazij’s shade hovered before them, still
attached to John Farrington’: mouth. The
features grew plainer, until the hate they
revealed seemed to have deadly force.

With an enormous effort, Ariel re¬
covered herself. Close to the pentacle
marked on the floor she went, chanting
in bad Arabic. As she approached, the
hate on the wraith’s face changed to fear.
With one last burst of courage, Ariel

reached out a finger and touched the
living shadow. Instantly it detached
itself from John Farrington’s mouth,
floated up for another foot or two, and
burst like a bubble.

Ariel fainted, and the two men rushed
to her aid.

"Ariel! Daughter!” groaned John
Farrington, completely recovered. "My
brave little girl.” He gathered her into
his arms.

Ariel did not remain unconscious more
than a moment. Strength returned to her
almost immediately. She sat up and
gasped.

"Quick, Father! Let’s burn the room
and everything in it.”

Leaping to her feet, she began tum¬
bling the books from the shelves, tearing
out leaves and scattering them in heaps.

"Wait, Daughter.” John Farrington
hesitated, and his worn face paled to a
ghastlier hue. "There is something not
in this room which—must be destroyed.
Rod?”

The eyes of the two men met and
clung in horrible, unspoken understand¬
ing.

"Get me some sheets, Ariel,” the older
man went on.

In a few moments, bearing a broad
board taken from the broken door, the
two men were plunging into the night,
following the lake path that led to the
thing in the mud.

John Farrington would not let Rod
touch the poor, befouled body.

"I’ll take my just share of punishment,
Rod. Hand me the sheets—and don’t
look.”

Rod turned his head and tried to close
his ears to the sucking sounds made by
a body leaving its muddy bed. His nos¬
trils quivered with the odor of death;
the odor that hung between the two men
throughout that dreadful return walk.

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

771

Not once did the young man glance at
the sheeted thing bound to the board.
Even after they had entered the house
and deposited their burden on the labora¬
tory floor, he refused to look. Near the
broken door he stood while John Far¬
rington and Ariel broke bottles of chem¬
icals and scattered their contents. He
heard the scratch of a match.

"Get out—quick!” shouted John Far¬
rington.

T hey were no sooner outside than
explosions began shaking the house.
At a safe distance they watched the flames
lick the sky, roaring higher after each
explosion.

"Thank God for fire!” John Farring¬
ton said grimly. "Those half-real bodies
will be consumed like paper, and there
will not be a trace left to tell the world
that I tampered with what should have
remained secret.”

Not until the three had entered Rod’s
car parked far from the house did John
Farrington allay Rod’s curiosity. While
the house burned, the high-reaching
flames painting the night with quivering
red, the two men talked.

"I am prepared to understand anything
you tell me, Judge. I saw the two Stowall
Vaynces. I saw three Ariels. They were
as real as my own flesh. And, God help
me, Judge! I—I saw Ahmad Yazij look
out of your eyes.”

The other placed a comforting hand on
his knee.

"It’s all right now, boy. I’m your
old friend again.” After a pause, he went
on, in a brisker tone of voice. "Rod, have
you ever been surprized at your own
actions and decisions, which made you
feel almost as though a stranger inside
you were directing your mind?”

"We’re all like that, Judge, aren’t we?
We’ve got to fight ourselves, beat our¬

selves, make ourselves think, act, and
live decently.”

"But are you sure we are fighting our¬
selves? Has it ever occurred to you that
your body might be like a house shelter¬
ing a large, quarrelsome family?”

Rod laughed. 'Tve felt like that at
times.”

"And that’s what I—what Ahmad
Yazij proved. He started his work nearly
two thousand years ago, and could never
have completed it had he not possessed
enough occult power to pass himself on
to younger, stronger bodies, which he
forced to carry on the work of his will.

"The human body is only a house.
Rod, equipped with various natural de¬
vices called senses which give the dweller
or the dwellers contacts with conscious¬
ness. There is one master of the house,
which is your true self, but there are
many interlopers, tramps that come from
outside; wandering, bodiless souls seek¬
ing a home. Sometimes one, sometimes
the other, takes ascendency over all the
rest, and we call the phenomenon 'chang¬
ing mood.’

"At least three hundred years ago,
Ahmad Yazij started out to find a way
to cast out all the other dwellers of a
body except himself, but not until mod¬
ern science began to be developed did he
make much headway.”

Rod broke in nervously. "Terrible
thought, that: his coming up to the pres¬
ent time through all the other ages of
ignorance and dawning knowledge.”

"I think it rather sublime, Rod; that is,
if he hadn’t misused his power. But he
was inherently evil. To go on, though:
he did not discover the soul spectroscope
until he was in the incarnation that we
knew, the shriveled, hideous Arab.” He
paused and breathed audibly for several
moments. "The soul spectroscope, Rod.
It’s a devilish mongrel, spawned from

772

WEIRD TALES

modem science wedded to occultism, for
separating souls as the prism spec¬
troscope separates the different radiations
from a luminous source. It shows up the
tramps that have stolen into a body, and,
at the operator’s will, casts them out.”

"But, Judge,” Rod interrupted, "I
can’t forget that the—the extra bodies I
saw were of flesh and blood. There was
Stowall Vaynce and—and Ariel-”

"Yes, they were real, half-real; crea¬
tures made up of matter of a sort. But
do we know so very much about matter,
after all? Matter and energy are the same
in the last analysis. Ahmad Yazij, in the
form of the Arab we knew, having ac¬
quired a knowledge of modern science
to add to his ancient lore of occultism
and magic, discovered that it was possi¬
ble, when separating souls, to split off
material atoms from the living body to
clothe the tramp with flesh. Don’t be
too shocked. Your own living body is
doing that constantly, casting off its own
atoms, renewing itself at least every seven
years. What Ahmid Yazij did was to
steal only enough living atoms to make
a second body of similar mass, but of
less density.”

"And that is why the dead thing called
Stowall Vaynce weighed only forty-five
pounds?”

"Yes; and it was the reason why he
was dead. For he was the original Vaynce,
you know, who had been forced to give
up too much of his living substance. The
one that came back was one of the poor
devil’s harmless body interlopers. Not
until Yazij got into my body, younger
and more vigorous than his, and with a
mind perhaps more carefully educated,
did he discover hew to materialize souls
without destroying the parent-body. Using
me, he separated two interlopers from
Ariel. And when I succeeded in beating
him back and getting ascendency, I

killed both. It was all tqo dreadful;
please comprehend. To retaliate, he tried
to kill the real Ariel. Many times. You
saw one occasion. But it’s all right now;
he’s gone.”

Rod looked back at the burning house
and shuddered. "Gone? Are you sure?”

"I am sure. Ariel cast him out without
giving him flesh; cast him unfleshed from
a living body. Had he passed out of a
dead body, as he did when he was exe¬
cuted, he could seize another home. But
now he is a homeless wanderer in space
and time.”

"But have you any assurance that he
can never come back—that he can never
seize another home, as you call it?”

John Farrington paused long before
answering.

"I can’t be sure—too sure,” he said.
"I only know that he can never take my
body again. I know how to guard against
him now.”

A long silence fell, for the three of
them were now watching the final
spectacle of the burning house, nearly
consumed by the flames. The old build¬
ing had crashed in, half smothering the
fire, so that black smoke belched up in
vast clouds.

"Look!” screamed Ariel. "Look!”
Her pointing finger picked out the top¬
most peak of the smoke cloud, swaying
against the red-lighted sky. It had formed
a colossal man, his feet planted in the
fire, his head high above the tree tops.
The features were plainly visible, sculp¬
tured from fire-painted smoke.

"Is it smoke?” Ariel quavered. "No,
no! Daddy, it’s looking at us, look¬
ing-”

But John Farrington, not heeding her,
got out of the car quietly, holding his
arms wide, while he chanted in Arabic,

THE DWELLERS IN THE HOUSE

773

Suddenly the black form writhed high caught it, tore it to fragments, and sent
into the air and sailed out over the lake, the fragments scattering, to be swallowed
still intact, until a sudden gust of wind by the black night.

J P

<2/prig of Rosemary

By H. WARNER MUNN

A tender story about a skinflint whose heart had turned to ice, and how it was
softened after his death

W HEN I was a boy in the little vil¬
lage of Pequoig, which is hidden
away in a fold of northwestern
Massachusetts’ hilly country, I remember
distinctly an old man with a long white
beard seen often on the streets and side
lanes, always alone.

Stump, stump, stump, would go his
peg-leg on the plank sidewalks as he
strode along, with occasionally a sharp
rattle of his cane along the pickets of the
bordering fences.

We boys would cry to each other,
"Watch out, here comes old Uncle
Moses!” as he came in sight; then it was
"Good day to you, Mr. Crockett!” to his
face.

"Humph!” was his invariable reply,
while his beard twitched as though about
to throw off sparks and the gnarled hand
clenched on his stout stick. Crack! Down
it would come on the boards and off he
would march, as though mightily insulted
by our greeting. Stump, stump, stump,
down the street; the hollow sound from
the boarding coming back long after he
was out of sight.

There was a tale in the village, that old
Uncle Moses had not always been so
morose, but his leg and his temper left
him together, shot away by a cannon ball
during the War of 1812.

He came home, hurt body and soul,
eager for sympathy, limping straight to
the door of the girl who had promised
to be his bride when the war was over.
For would he not be covered with glory
and resplendent with glittering buttons
and braid?

She took one long horrified look at him,
standing there on her stoop, haggard,
worn and crippled, leaning on his crutch¬
es, and she threw up her hands in dismay.

"Oh, Moses!” she cried, "I’d rather see
you dead than coming home this way!”
and slammed the door in his face.

Hurt and bewildered, his heart became
like ice. From that day on, he had a kind
word for no one; scowling, friendless,
solitary, he stumped the streets of Pequoig
and grew old alone.

The avuncular appellation came not
from any kin of his, for he had no rel¬
atives. People called him Uncle because
of his pawnbroker habits, and the name
stuck. He loaned money at exorbitant in¬
terest and only upon excellent security.
No tale of hard times could induce him
to part with a penny due him, and many
a curse was heaped upon his head from
some poor soul thrust out into the wide
world, sans house, property or hope.

Little by little, his fingers poked into
every pie in Pequoig. Hardly an individ-

774

WEIRD TALES

ual but was somehow in his debt, and one
in debt to Uncle Moses rarely threw off
his bonds.

The Civil War came and found many
that took advantage of his pocketbook.
Was the man with a family drafted? To
old Uncle Moses then, for the hundred
dollars to pay some single man to take his
place.

Long after the war was over, some
found their paid interest had totalled
many times the principal, but the original
sum loaned had not been abated a penny
and they still owed old Uncle Moses one
hundred dollars.

Mortgages, civic funds, rents, all came
eventually to his eager clutching hands
and there was a specter behind every
man’s bed as he tossed sleepless at night;
for there was no pity in old Uncle Moses’
stony heart for any living being.

By some he was looked upon with dis¬
gust and repulsion, by others with scorn,
but underneath there was fear and hatred.
And so time wore on.

As he grew older, the familiar stump¬
ing was heard less frequently, but the vil¬
lage dogs avoided him still, for there was
power in his arm and a bite in his stick
even in these late days when I came to
know him.

At that time the pleasant custom of
decorating graves on Memorial Day had
recently come into fashion and was re¬
ceived with great enthusiasm and inter¬
est in Pequoig.

How well I remember seeing old
Uncle Moses, standing with his weight
on his peg-leg, looking on at the exercises
in Highland Cemetery, mentally reckon¬
ing up the cost in good hard cash of all
the flowers and wreaths laid out for the
rains to destroy!

"Humph!” he grunted loudly. "Pagan
superstition! Criminal waste of money!”
and stumped away home.

This spread through the village on in¬
dignant tongues, and feeling ran high, so
that there was talk of hooded men and
tar and feathers. Nothing probably
would have come of it in the end, for the
fear of his power was too great, but there
was no time given to decide the question.

T he very next morning, a debtor call¬
ing to pay money due, found old
Uncle Moses dead in his chair, with his
jaw dropped down and with his stick
clutched firmly in his hand.

All over town there was silent rejoicing
and if ever there was talk of a judgment
sent straight from heaven, it was then,
with Moses Crockett as a horrible exam¬
ple.

He had made no will, so even before his
burial, a special town meeting was called
to settle the question of his money. Al¬
most unanimously it was voted to cancel
all debts owing to his estate, bring back
and settle again all townspeople who had
been evicted through him, and use the re¬
mainder of his wealth in civic improve¬
ments.

It might be thought that this would
have caused old Uncle Moses to turn over
in his coffin, but calm and peaceful he lay,
and was lowered into the grave. The
ground leveled, a simple headstone placed
and the sexton went away and left him
alone as he would have chosen to be.

And while the town was glad, in a fur¬
tive shamefaced way, to see the last of
him, a family living near the river were
made happy for another reason.

Almost at the very instant that the
spades patted down the last heap of loose
earth in the Crockett lot, a girl baby was
born to the Keltons.

She did not cry at first, like most babies,
quickly afterward to fall asleep, but the
beginning of her life was one of smiles.
"What shall we call her, Patience?”

A SPRIG OF ROSEMARY

775

said Abner, stroking his wife’s hair with
a horny, work-gnarled hand.

"We will call her Rosemary, dear,” she
answered weakly. "Rosemary. Rose¬
mary Kelton. Isn’t it lovely, Abner? She
likes it, see how she smiles! Rosemary—
that’s for remembrance.”

Then mother and daughter fell fast
asleep and the great day was over.

The Keltons were one of the expatri¬
ated families brought back to better times
by the death of old Uncle Moses. Soon
they left the little shack by the river and
returned into the village again to their
old home.

One day Abner, his wife, and Rose¬
mary, still in arms, went through the
cemetery. They paused beside the grave
of Moses Crockett for a moment. There
were none of the usual eulogies of the
dead upon his stone, merely a record of
the dates of birth and death and his
name; that was ail.

"Poor old man!” said Mrs. Kelton.
"I’m sorry for him. Nobody ever had a
good word for him.”

"Why should they?” flared up Abner.
"He never did anything decent for any¬
body while he lived. In fact, the only
good thing he ever did was die and get
out of the way. Why, in a few more
years, nobody in Pequoig would have
been able to breathe unless they asked old
Crockett’s permission! Why, what’s the
matter with the child?”

For little Rosemary, whether fright¬
ened by her father’s violent and angry
tone, or for another reason, had com¬
menced to cry bitterly and would not be
comforted. Nor did she ever after that
show such a liking for her father as had
been her wont.

Another year crept by. Little Rosemary
became "free, goin’ on four,” as she
would proudly announce to all who
begged to be informed.

Again on Memorial Day, the family
went to Highland Cemetery to lay tributes
upon ancestral resting-places.

Here in Pequoig, it has always been a
custom that a thing worth doing at all is
worth doing well, and the graves were
loaded with flowers. This made it all the
more noticeable, when they passed, as
they were obliged to do, old Moses Croc¬
kett’s grave.

It was bare and untended. The grass
grew upon it uncut and in stiff clumps.
The headstone had tipped drunkenly
askew. The whole effect was that of deso¬
lation and neglect.

Rosemary looked at this depressing
sight and hung back on her mother’s
hand.

"Mama! Why hasn’t he got some flow¬
ers, too? Everybody else has got lots.
Couldn’t they g*ve him a few?”

Mrs. Kelton looked at the grave and at
her earnest-faced little girl. It did seem
petty and spiteful to neglect this hard,
unloved man, now that he was dead and
gone.

"Give him this if you like, little daugh¬
ter,” she smiled, and broke off a little
sweet-smelling sprig of blue flowers from
the bouquet she carried. "It’s rosemary,
the pretty little shrub that we named you
after. Put it there, dear. Now come, we
will be late for the exercises.”

"Why didn’t he have any flowers,
Mama?”

"Nobody loved him, darling. He
didn’t have any little girl like you to think
about him and bring him flowers. He
was all alone, you see.”

"Poor old man! I’ll be his little girl,
Mama. I’ll love him too and bring him
flowers. Can’t I be your little girl and his
too, Mama?”

Tears sprang to her mother’s eyes. She
knelt and hugged her baby.

"Mother’s thoughtful little daughter!

77 6

WEIRD TALES

Of course you can. We will come here
together, whenever you wish.”

And there the matter ended for a
while.

On Sundays Mrs. Kelton and Rose¬
mary came to be regular visitors to the
grave. It took on a different aspect.

The headstone was straightened, the
grass neatly clipped, with seed sown to
fill in the bare spots. Flowers were
brought, fresh every week, whatever was
in season at the time. A little bush had
sprung up of itself upon the grave and
one day Mrs. Kelton noticed that the spot
it occupied must be directly over the old
man’s heart. It was rosemary.

T he year wore away to early fall.

Goldenrod and fringed gentians ap¬
peared upon the grave and the little girl
had formed the habit of going to the
cemetery alone.

At first, she had wandered off and had
been sought anxiously and with much
concern, only to be found coming home
with the calm explanation that having
nothing else to do she had gone to the
cemetery with flowers for old Uncle
Moses.

Entering into the spirit of the play,
Abner asked teasingly, "How did he like
’em? Did he thank ye for ’em, now?”

" ’Deed he did, Papa. He walked all
the way here with me, too, but when he
saw you he went back.”

Abner’s eyes almost popped from his
head. He looked at his wife. She paled.

"Are you sure it was him, dear? How
was he dressed?”

"Course ’twas him. He wore the same
clothes he always wears. A black suit, big
wide floppy hat, and his shoes are square
at the toe.

"Poor man,” she interrupted herself.
"I mean 'shoe,’ of course, because he’s
only got one foot. But he gets along real

good with his peg-leg and his cane with
the silver on the handle.”

Over the child’s head, the parents ex¬
changed an awed look. She had described
his garb to the life, and there was not a
picture of Moses Crockett in the entire
village of Pequoig!

"You have seen him before, then?”
queried Abner.

"Course. Lots of times. We talk to¬
gether every time I go up there.”

"What about?”

"Oh, things,” she replied, evasively.
"He talks like he’s glad to have me for a
little girl.”

Home again, the parents held a long
colloquy, and arrived at the opinion that
for the sake of her future sanity she must
be kept away from the grave.

So, for a month, Highland Cemetery
went unvisited by any Kelton, and grass
grew up in clumps upon the grave and
turned brown and sere in the chill nights
of autumn.

Rosemary wept, but parental orders
were stern. Then one day she was miss¬
ing again and was found this time in the
cemetery itself, radiant and happy. She
was sitting by the headstone, talking rap¬
idly, and appeared to be enjoying herself
so much that Mrs. Kelton had not the
heart to drag her away, but withdrew un¬
observed.

She came home in wild excitement. Old
Uncle Moses, it appeared, had hit a big
dog with his cane, when it jumped out
at her as she was passing by Asa Higgins’
house.

A bner kelton put on his hat and coat
- and went out without saying a word.
In front of the Higgins house lay a dog.
He did not remember ever having seen it
about the village. Its back had been
broken by a heavy blow and it was dead.
He went to Highland Cemetery in the

A SPRIG OF ROSEMARY

777

gathering dark. Standing before the
grave he took off his hat.

"I’m much obliged, Mr. Crockett,” he
said, in a steady voice. "We think the
world of that little girl.”

Off in the depths of the wooded ceme¬
tery a whippoorwill sounded its plaintive,
half-human cry. It came like a distant,
sardonic laugh.

Abner started and put on his hat. "You
poor, dumb fool!” he said to himself and
strode home.

There is little more to tell.

Scarlet fever came to Pequoig before
the first snow fell, and among the early
victims was Rosemary Kelton. Parched
and hot, she threw herself about upon her
little bed in the agonies of delirium and
nothing the anguished parents could do
would bring her ease.

"I want Uncle Moses. Why don’t
Uncle Moses come to me?” she kept con¬
tinually calling, and in desperation Abner
Kelton went to Highland Cemetery with
grief in his heart.

He knelt beside the grave.

"God,” he said, very simply, "I ain’t
much on praying, but if you can let Moses
Crockett come home with me for a spell,
I’ll be much obliged.”

He paused; he felt there should be
something more, but nothing would come
to his mind. There was no sound to be
heard but the wind dolefully whining
through the leafless branches of the weep¬
ing willows, and soughing in the pines.

"Amen,” he said, and stood up.

He walked out of the cemetery on the
gravel path. He stopped and looked back;
there was nothing to be seen, but he
thought that he heard an irregular step
on the gravel behind him.

He went on, down into the village. Far
behind came a hollow stump, stump,
stump, on the board walk, and faint but
clear, a long rattle such as might be made

by a stick dragged along the white-painted
pickets of a fence.

Abner Kelton hurried home.

Stump, stump, stump, on the other side
of the street.

Abner Kelton raised the latch of his
gate and went into his house.

Lying on her bed, Rosemary smiled at
him. "You sent him, didn’t you, Papa?
He loves you too now, Papa, because you
came for him. He said he came before,
but your hearts were against him and he
couldn’t get in. How good his cool hands
feel on my forehead!”

She fell off into easy slumber, and that
night the fever broke.

The parents spoke little of what had
happened, but lying awake, they heard in
the nights of sickness that followed, little
noises that sounded like the slight tapping
of a wooden leg set softly as might be in
the taking of steps. And there was talking
from below stairs. Sometimes they could
swear they heard another voice besides
that of their daughter, but so often as
they went down to see, the other voice
stopped and they found Rosemary mut¬
tering in her sleep.

So they gave up and left her with her
unseen companion, for that she was in
loving care could not be doubted.

But, although the fever was gone, Rose¬
mary did not get well. Day by day she
became more thin and pale, daily more
feeble, until in spite of all their efforts
she whispered one evening with a tired
little sigh: "I love my Mama and Papa,
and my Uncle Moses,” and closed her
eyes for ever, with the setting of the sun.

T hat was a night of sleepless sorrow.

The grief-stricken mother sat by the
beside of her first-born and mourned,
dry-eyed and heartbroken.

Along toward morning, outraged na¬
ture had her way, and she dropped off to

.778

WEIRD TALES

sleep in her rocker. People afterward
thought she dreamed what followed, but
she always swore that a sudden noise
brought her eyes open.

Rosemary was sitting up in the bed,
holding out her arms to some one behind
her mother. She was unable to turn, but
she heard a deep, hearty, happy laugh, no
more like the surly tones that she remem¬
bered from Moses Crockett than anything
in the world.

"I knew you would come back for me,
Uncle Moses,” crowed the little girl, with
a lovely smile. ''I waited for you. I just
couldn’t go by myself. It was so far and
so dark.”

The person behind Mrs. Kelton
laughed again.

"Come,” said the hearty, good-
humored tones. "Come, darling, we will
go together. Did you think I would let
the only one in the whole wide world who
ever loved old Uncle Moses go alone?”

Then she saw that there were two
Rosemarys, for one jumped out of bed
and left the other lying there. The first
Rosemary ran past the rocker.

"Here,” said the happy voice, "put on
your shoes. We are going to have a long

journey, you know. So! There we are.
Now, put this on the bed, then when your
mother wakes up, she will know that
everything is all right, and you will be
waiting for her to follow us by and by.”

The first Rosemary ran back to the bed
and tucked something into the clasped
fingers of the second.

"Now then, here we go. Come on. Up!
You shall have a ride.”

The door opened and closed again. At
once Mrs. Kelton sprang up. She darted
to the bed and took a tiny twig from be¬
tween the fingers of the little girl who lay
smiling there.

At last, tears blinded her eyes, but she
heard a sound in the room and dashed
them away. Abner stood at the foot of
the stairs, looking sadly at her. She
walked toward him.

"Oh, Abner,” she began and paused,
listening.

Stump, stump, stump, far away on the
board sidewalk, and faint but clear, the
sharp rattle of a stick on a picket fence.

She held up the sweet-smelling sprig
before his face.

"Rosemary,” she said unsteadily.
"Rosemary. That’s for remembrance.”

Vhe U*& Drive

By CARL JACOBI

A short story of a grisly ride through a blizzard
with a corpse

I T WAS a cold wind that whipped
across the hills that November eve¬
ning. There was snow in the air,
and Jeb Waters in the cab of his jolting
van shivered and drew the collar of his

sheepskin higher about the throat. All
day endless masses of white cumulus
cloud had raced across a cheerless sky.
They were gray now, those clouds, leaden
gray, and so low-hanging they seemed to

THE LAST DRIVE

779

lie like a pall on the crest of each distant
hillock. Off to the right, stem and ma¬
jestic, like a great parade of H. G. Wells’
Martian creatures, marched the towers of
the Eastern States Power lines, the only
evidence here of present-day civilization.
A low humming whine rose from the taut
wires now as the mounting wind twanged
them in defiance.

Through the windshield Jeb Waters
scanned the sky anxiously.

"It’s going to be a cold trip back,” he
muttered to himself. “Looks mighty like
a blizzard startin’.”

He gave the engine a bit more gas and
tightened his grasp on the wheel as a
sharper curve loomed up suddenly before
him. For a time he drove in silence, his
mind fixed only on the barrenness of the
hills on all sides. Marchester lay thirty
miles ahead, thirty long, rolling miles.
Littleton was just behind. If there were
going to be a storm, perhaps it would be
wise to return and wait until morning
before making the trip. It would be bad
to get stuck out here tonight, especially
with the kind of load he was delivering.
Enough to give one the creeps even in the
daytime.

Marchester with its few hundred souls,
hopelessly lost in the hills, too small or
perhaps too lazy to incorporate itself,
had been passed by without a glance when
the railroad officials distributed spurs lead¬
ing from the main line. As a result all
freight had to be trucked thirty miles
across the country from Littleton, the
nearest town on trackage. But there
wasn’t much freight, as the officials had
suspected, and although Jeb Waters drove
the distance only twice a week, he rarely
returned with more than a single package.

Today, however, the load had stunned
him with its importance. In the van, back
of him, separated by only the wooden wall
of the cab, lay a coffin, and in that coffin

was the body of Philip Carr, Marchester’s
most promising son. Philip Carr—Race
Carr they had called him because he was
such a driving fool—was the only man
who could have brought the town to fame.
With his queer-looking Speed Empress,
the racing-car which was a product of his
own invention and three years’ work, he
had hoped to lower the automobile speed
record on the sand track of Daytona
Beach, Florida. He had clocked an unof¬
ficial 300 miles an hour in a practise
attempt, and the world had sat up and
taken notice.

On the fatal day, however, a tire had
failed to stand the centrifugal force, and
in a trice the car had twisted itself into a
lump of steel. Philip Carr had been in¬
stantly killed. There was talk of burying
him in Florida, but Marchester, his home
town, had absolutely refused. And so the
body had been shipped back to Littleton,
the nearest point on rails, and Jeb Waters
had been sent to bring it from there to
Marchester.

J eb hadn’t liked the idea. There was
nothing to be afraid of, he knew, but
somehow when he was alone in these
Rentharpian Hills, even though he had
known no other home since a child, he
always felt depressed and anxious for
companionship. A coffin would hardly
serve to ease his mind.

The wind was mounting steadily, and
now the first swirls of snow began to ap¬
pear. The cab of the van was anything
but warm. A corner of the windshield
was broken out, and the rags Jeb had
stuffed in the hole failed to keep out the
cold.

Premature darkness had swooped down
under the lowering clouds, and Jeb turned
on the lights. The van was a very old
one, and the lights worked on the mag¬
neto. As the snow became thicker and

780

WEIRD TALES

thicker Jeb was forced to reduce his speed,
and the lights, deprived of most of their
current, dimmed to only a low dismal
glow, illuminating but little of the road
ahead.

Yet the miles rolled slowly by. The
snow was piling in drifts now. It rolled
across the hills, a great sweeping blanket
of white, and swirled like powder through
the crevices of the cab. And it was grow¬
ing colder.

Frome’s Hill, the steepest rise on the
road, loomed up abruptly, and Jeb roared
the rickety motor into a running start. The
van lurched up the ascent, back wheels
spinning in the soft snow, seeking trac¬
tion. The engine hammered its protest.
The transmission groaned as if in pain.
Up, up climbed the truck until at length it
reached the very top.

"Now it’s clear sailing,” said Jeb aloud.

But he had spoken too soon. With a
sigh as if the feat had been too great, the
motor lapsed into sudden silence. The
lights blinked out, and there was only the
gray darkness of the hills and the swish¬
ing of the snow on the sides of the cab.

For a full moment Jeb sat there motion¬
less as the horror of the situation fell upon
him. Snowbound with a corpse! Twenty
miles from the nearest habitation and
alone with a coffin! A cold sweat burst
out on his forehead at the realization of
the predicament.

But he was acting like a child. It was
ridiculous to let his nerves run away with
him like that. If he could only keep from
freezing there would be no danger. In
the morning when it was found he hadn’t
reached Marchester the people would send
help. Probably Ethan would come. Old
Ethan. He would come in that funny
sleigh of his. And he would say:

"Well Jeb, howdja like spending the
night with a dead ’un?”

And then they would both laugh and

drive back to town. . . . But that was
tomorrow. Tonight there was the storm
—and the corpse.

He set the spark, got out, and cranked
the engine. But he did it half-heartedly.
He knew by the tone of the engine when
it had stopped that it would be a long
time before it would resume revolutions.

At length he resigned himself to his
plight, returned to the cab and tried to
keep warm. But the cab was old and bad¬
ly built. The wind blew through chinks
and holes in great drafts, and snow sifted
down his neck. It suddenly occurred to
him that the back part of the van, which
had been repaired recently, would give
better protection against the blizzard than
the cab. There were robes back there too,
robes used to keep packages from being
broken. If only the coffin weren’t there!
One couldn’t sleep next to a coffin.

Another thought followed. Why not
put the coffin in the cab? There was
nothing else in the van, and he would
then have the back of it to himself. He
could lie down too and with the robes
manage to keep -warm somehow.

In a moment his mind was made up,
and he set about to accomplish his task.
It was hard, slow work. The coffin was
heavy, the cab small and the steering-post
in the way. Finally by shoving it in end
up he managed it successfully, and then
going to the back of the van, he went in,
closed the door, rolled up like a ball in the
robes and lay down to sleep.

S leep proved elusive. He stirred rest¬
lessly, listening to the sounds of the
storm. Occasionally the truck trembled as
a stronger gust of wind struck it. Occa¬
sionally he could hear the mournful
Eolian whine of the power lines. Pow¬
dery snow rustled along the roof of the
van. And the iron exhaust pipe cracked
loudly as the heat left it. Minutes
dragged by, slowly, interminably.

THE LAST DRIVE

78V

And then suddenly Jeb Waters sat bolt
upright. Whether or not he had dozed
off into a fitful sleep he did not know,
but at any rate he was wide awake now.

The van was moving! He could hear
the tires crunching in the snow, could feel
the slight swaying as the car gained mo¬
mentum. He leaped to his feet and
pressed his eyes against the little window
that connected the back of the van with
the cab.

For a moment he saw nothing. A strip
of black velvet seemed pasted before the
glass. Then the darkness softened. A
soft glow seemed to form in the cab, and
vaguely he seemed to see the figure of a
man hunched over the wheel in the driv¬
er’s position.

The van was going faster now. It
creaked and swayed, and the wheels rum¬
bled hollowly. Yet strangely enough
there was no sound of the engine. Jeb
hammered on the little pane of glass.

"Hey!” he cried. "Get away from that
wheel! Stop!”

The figure seemed not to hear. With
his hands grasping the wheel tightly, el¬
bows far out, shoulders hunched low, he
appeared aware of nothing but the dark
road ahead of him. Faster and faster sped
the van.

Frantically Jeb rammed his clenched fist
through the window. The glass broke
into a thousand fragments.

"Do you hear?” he cried. "Stop, blast
you! Stop!”

The man turned and leered at him.
Even in the half-glow Jeb recognized the
features — that deathly white face, the
black, glassy eyes.

"Oh, my God,” he screamed. " It’s
Philip Carr!” His voice rose to a hysterical
laughing sob. His hands trembled as he
clutched the careening walls, striving to
keep his balance.

"Philip Carr,” he shouted. "You’re

dead. You’re dead, do you hear? You
can’t drive any more.”

A horrible gurgling laugh came from
the man at the wheel. The figure bent
lower as if to urge the van to a greater
speed. And the van answered as if to a
magic touch. On it raced into the storm,
rocking and swaying like a thing accursed.
Snow swirled past in great white clouds.
The wind howled in fanatical accom¬
paniment.

Jeb plunged his arm through the bro¬
ken window and clawed for the throat of
the driver.

"Stop!” he screamed. And then he
gurgled in horror as his hands touched the
ice-cold skin.

Suddenly with a lurch the van left the
road and leaped toward the blacker shad¬
ows of a gully. A giant tree, its branches
gesticulating wildly in the wind, reared up
just ahead.

There came a crash!

“XT’s odd,” said the coroner, and
X frowned.

Old Ethan scratched his chin.

"It ’pears,” he said, "as if that danged
van engine went and stopped right on the
top of that hill. Then Jeb, he musta gone
into the back of the van to keep warm,
and durin’ the night the wind started the
thing a-rollin’. It come tearin’ down the
hill, jumped into this here gully and ran
smash agin the tree. That’s the way I
figure it. Poor old Jeb!”

"Yes,” replied the coroner, "but there
doesn’t seem to be the slightest injury on
Jeb’s body. Apparently he died of heart-
failure. And the corpse of Philip
Carr! . . . The crash might have ripped
open the coffin. But that doesn’t explain
why the body although set in rigor mortis
is in a sitting position. The way his arms
are extended, it looks almost as though he
were driving once more.”

9\/e:

ellie Foster

By AUGUST W. DERLETH

A brief tale of a woman who would not stay quiet in her grave

M RS. KRAFT came hurriedly from
the house, closed the white gate
behind her, and half ran across
the dusty street. With one hand she held
her long skirts clear of the walk; with
the other she pressed a white handker¬
chief tightly to her lips. Her dark eyes
were fixed on the green and white house
at the end of the block, almost hidden
in the shade of overhanging elms of great
age.

The gate stood open, and Mrs. Kraft
stepped quickly on to the lawn, forget¬
ting to close the gate behind her. She
avoided the low veranda, going around
the side of the house, and entered the
kitchen through the open door at the
back.

Mrs. Perkins was leafing through her
recipe book when the shadow of Mrs.
Kraft momentarily darkened her door.
She looked up and said, "How do, Mrs.
Kraft? You’re out early this morning.”
She smiled.

Mrs. Kraft did not smile. She stood
quite still, her handkerchief still pressed
tightly against her mouth, nodding curtly
to acknowledge her neighbor’s greeting.

Mrs. Perkins looked at her oddly.
"What is it, Mrs. Kraft?” she asked a
little nervously.

Mrs. Kraft took the handkerchief away
from her mouth, clenching it tightly in
her hand, and said, "It happened again
last night.”

Mrs. Perkins put her recipe book aside
suddenly. "How do you know?” she
asked breathlessly. Her eyes were un-
782

naturally wide. "How do you know,
Mrs. Kraft?”

Her visitor opened her hand jerkily.
"It was my niece this time. She saw the
woman, too. I didn’t want Andrew to
let the child go out last night, but she
would have her way. She wanted to go
to her Aunt Emmy’s."

"Beyond the cemetery,” breathed Mrs.
Perkins. "But she came back before
dark, surely?"

Mrs. Kraft shook her head. "No. At
dusk, just before the street lights went
on. The woman was there, standing in
the road. The child was afraid, even
when the woman took her hand and
walked along with her.”

"What did she do? Oh, I hope nothing
serious happened!”

"The same as before. The woman
kissed the child, and the little one went
to sleep. This morning she is so weak,
she couldn’t get up. Loss of blood, the
doctor said.”

Mrs. Perkins clasped her hands help¬
lessly in her lap. "What can we do, Mrs.
Kraft? Nobody would believe us if we
said what this must be.”

Mrs. Kraft made an impatient move¬
ment with her head. Then she leaned for¬
ward, her dark eyes shining, speaking in
a low voice. "The child knew the
woman.”

Mrs. Perkins started. "It wasn’t . . .
wasn’t-”

Mrs. Kraft nodded. "Nellie Foster—
not yet a month dead!”

Mrs. Perkins wove her fingers together

NELLIE FOSTER

783

nervously. She had gone pale, and her
uneasiness was more pronounced than
her visitor’s.

"My niece is the third child, Mrs.
Perkins. We must do something, or it
will continue—and the children may die.”

Mrs. Perkins said nothing. Her visitor
went on.

"I’m going to do something, if you
won’t,” she said. "Tonight I’m going to
watch at the cemetery. There won’t be
another child to be taken like that.”

"I don’t know what I can do,” mur¬
mured Mrs. Perkins quietly. "I get so
nervous. If I saw Nellie Foster, I’d
probably scream.”

Mrs. Kraft shook her head firmly.
"That would never do,” she admitted.

"Did you go to the minister?” asked
Mrs. Perkins.

Mrs. Kraft pressed her lips tightly to¬
gether before she spoke. Then she said,
"He said there were no such things. He
said only ignorant people believed in
vampires.”

Mrs. Perkins shook her head in disap¬
proval.

“He asked me how Nellie Foster could
have become one, and I told him about
the cat jumping over her coffin. He
smiled, and wouldn’t believe me.” Mrs.
Kraft stood up, nodding her head. "And
I know it’s Nellie Foster, because I was
out to the cemetery this morning, and
there were three little holes in the grave
—like finger holes, going ’way down
deep.”

"What are you going to do?”

"I don’t know yet. But I’ll watch, and
I won’t let her get out of the cemetery.”

"Maybe the men could do something,”
suggested Mrs. Perkins hopefully.

"It would be worse than telling the
minister, to go to them. They’d laugh.
If he wouldn’t believe it, they wouldn’t,”

said Mrs. Kraft scornfully. "It will be
left for some one else to do.”

”1 wish I could help,” said Mrs. Per¬
kins.

Mrs. Kraft looked at her reflectively,
her eyes hardening. "You can, if you
want.”

Mrs. Perkins nodded eagerly.

"If I’m to go to the cemetery. I’ve
got to be protected.”

The other woman nodded. Mrs. Kraft
pursed her lips firmly. "I need some¬
thing,” she went on, "and I’d like to use
that blessed crucifix your son brought
from Belgium, the one Cardinal Mercier
gave him, a very old one, he said it was.”

For a moment Mrs. Perkins wavered.
Her lips faltered a little. Then, quail¬
ing before the stern eyes of Mrs. Kraft,
she moved noiselessly to get the crucifix.

Mrs. Kraft attached it to a black rib¬
bon around her neck, and tucked it out
of sight in the bosom of her black dress.
Then she rose to go.

"I’ll tell you what happened in the
morning, Mrs. Perkins. And if I don’t
come”—Mrs. Kraft faltered—"then
something’s wrong. And if I’m not here
before noon, you’d best go to the cem¬
etery, perhaps, and look around a bit.”

Mrs. Perkins quavered, "You don’t
think she’d go for you, Mrs. Kraft?”

"They don’t only go for children, Mrs.
Perkins. I’ve read about them. If they
can’t die, they have to have blood—and
we’ve blood, too.”

Nodding her head sagely, Mrs. Kraft
went from the house, her lips still pursed,
her hand still tightly clenching her hand¬
kerchief.

M rs. kraft sat on the back porch
with Mrs. Perkins a little after
sunrise the next morning. The dew was
not yet gone; it hung heavy on the holly¬
hocks and delphinium. The early sun-

784

WEIRD TALES

light threw long shadows across the gar¬
den.

Mrs. Kraft was talking. "I got there
just after sunset and hid behind the oak
tree near old Mr. Prince’s grave, and
watched for Nellie Foster. When the
moon came up, I saw something on her
grave, something gray. It was like a part
of some one lying there, and it was mov¬
ing. It was misty, and I couldn’t see it
well. Then I saw a hand, and then an¬
other, and after that a face.” Mrs. Kraft
coughed a little; Mrs. Perkins shuddered.

"And then?” prompted Mrs. Perkins.
She leaned forward, fascinated.

"It was Nellie Foster,” Mrs. Kraft
went on in a low voice. "She was crawl¬
ing out of her grave. I could see her
plainly then in the moonlight. It was
Nellie, all right. I’d know her anywhere.
She pulled herself out—it was like mist
coming out of those holes in the grave,
those little holes.”

"What did you do?”

"I think I was scared. I didn’t move.
When the mist stopped coming there was
Nellie standing on the grave. Then I
ran toward her, holding the cross in my
hand. Before I could reach her, she was
gone.”

Mrs. Kraft’s face twisted suddenly in
pain. "This morning they found the lit¬
tle Walters girl, like the others. I should
have watched beside the grave. I should
have stopped Nellie. I shouldn’t have let
her get out. It’s my fault that the little
Walters girl was attacked. My fault. I
could have stopped Nellie. I could have
watched there all night. I should have
gone forward before she got out of the
grave.”

She rose suddenly, disturbed. "I’m
going now, Mrs. Perkins. Let me keep
the cross a little longer. I think I’ll need
it tonight.”

Mrs. Perkins nodded, and her visitor

was gone, her black-clothed figure walk¬
ing quickly across the road. Mrs. Perkins
watched her go, wondering about Nellie
Foster, hoping that soon something might
be done to stop her coming from her
grave. There was her own little Flory to
think about. What if some day Nellie
Foster should see her, and then they
would find little Flory Perkins like that?
Mrs. Perkins shuddered. "Oh Lord, give
me power to do something,” she thought.
"Let me help.” Then she thought, "And
Nellie Foster was always such a nice girl!
It’s hard to believe.” She went into the
house, shaking her head.

She had intended to go over to see
Mrs. Kraft just after dinner, to talk about
doing something, but a sudden storm
struck the town, and for six hours it
raged, pouring rain, darkening the town.
For six hours only lightning flashes
brightened the darkness. Then, at seven
o’clock, the sky cleared abruptly, and the
setting sun came out to finish the July
day in a blaze of rainbow glory.

M rs. perkins finished washing the
supper dishes, saw her Flory go
out to play until dark, and finally started
for Mrs. Kraft’s. Going out to the side¬
walk, she saw an elderly man coming
quickly down the street. Mr. Shurz, she
thought. Seems in a hurry, too. She pon¬
dered this. Something on his mind, like¬
ly. She purposely slowed her pace.

At the gate she met him. He would
have gone past had he not spied her sud¬
denly. Then he stopped breathlessly.
"Miz’ Perkins, have y’ heard the news?”

Mrs. Perkins shook her head. "Light¬
ning strike somewhere?” she asked.

"If only ’twere that, Miz’ Perkins,
ma’am.” The old man shook his head
dolefully. "The like of this we’ve never
had in this town before, ’slong as I can
remember. This afternoon during the
W. T.—7

NELLIE FOSTER

785

storm, some one got into the cemetery
and dug open Nellie Foster's grave!”

Mrs. Perkins leaned over the gate, her
hands tightly clenched on the pointed
staves. "What?” she whispered hoarsely.
"What’s that you say, Mr. Shurz?”

" 'Tis just as I say, Miz’ Perkins. Some
one dug into Nellie Foster’s grave, in all
that storm, too, and opened the coffin,
Miz’ Perkins, ma’am, and drttv a stake
clean through her body!”

"A stake . . . through her body!” She
shook her head. "Just what Mrs. Kraft
said should be done,” she murmured to
herself.

Mr. Shurz did not hear her. He nod¬
ded vehemently. "Clean through, Miz’
Perkins, ma’am. And a powerful lot of
blood there were, too; ’twas a surprize to
Doctor Bames. A strange, unnatural
thing, the doctor said.”

"But surely the coffin was covered
again?”

"Partly, only partly, Miz’ Perkins.
Seems the man got scared away.”

"Oh ... it was a man, then?”

Mr. Shurz looked at her, smiling vac¬
uously. " ’Course ’twas a man, Miz’
Perkins.”

"He was seen, then?”

Mr. Shurz shook his head. "Oh, no,
he wasn’t seen. No, ma’am, he wasn’t
seen. Too slick for that, he was.”

Mrs. Perkins felt her heart pounding
in her breast. She felt suddenly that she
was stifling. She opened the gate and
stepped onto the sidewalk at Mr. Shurz’s
side, walking along with him. She did
not hear what he was saying.

Mrs. Kraft was out on her lawn. She
was pale, dishevelled. Mrs. Perkins was
thinking, I hope he won’t notice anything,
I hope he won’t notice anything. Mr.
Shurz stopped with Mrs. Perkins. Mrs,

Perkins could hardly bring herself to say,
"How do, Mrs. Kraft?”

Then, as Mr. Shurz was repeating his
story to Mrs. Kraft, Mrs. Perkins’ eyes
fell on the stain of red clay on Mrs.
Kraft’s hands, a stain at first difficult to
wash away. She wanted to look away
from Mrs. Kraft’s rough hands, but she
could not. Then she noticed that Mr.
Shurz had seen the stain, too.

"Been digging in red clay, have you,
Miz’ Kraft?” He laughed hollowly.
"Looks mighty like that clay they dug
away off Nellie Foster’s coffin, now.” He
wagged his head.

Mrs. Perkins felt faint. She heard him
talking, rambling on. Deep down in her
she wanted to say something, anything,
to change the subject, but she could not.
Then she heard Mrs. Kraft speaking.

"I’ve been digging in the garden, Mr.
Shurz,” she smiled politely, despite her
white, drawn face. "This stain is mighty
hard to get off your hands.”

Mrs. Perkins heard herself saying,
"That’s right. I warned Mrs. Kraft not
to touch the red clay when we were dig¬
ging up her sweet william right after the
storm, but she wouldn’t listen.” She was
thinking, "Oh Lord, don’t let him look
into the garden; don’t let him see how
black the ground is there.”

Mr. Shurz grinned broadly and shrugged
his shoulders. " ’Tis a good time to dig
garden, after rain. Well, I must be off.
We’ll be catching him who meddled with
Nellie Foster.”

The women, standing one on each
side of the fence, watched the old man go
down the street. Mrs. Perkins was afraid
to look at Mrs. Kraft. Then she heard
her neighbor cough lightly, and turned.

Mrs. Kraft was holding out the crucifix.
"I don’t think I’ll need it any more, Mrs.
Perkins,” she was saying.

S^ORD of explanation is due our readers as to the change in dating of Weird

Tales. Heretofore, like many other magazines, Weird Tales has been

dated one month later than its actual sale date. For instance, our March
issue went on sale February 1, and went off sale on the news stands March 1, to make
way for our April issue. We have intended for a long time to change Weird Tales
to a rational dating, and we are doing this with the current (June) issue. To effect
this change in dating, the April issue was kept on the stands forty-five days. The
May issue went on sale, therefore, on April 15 instead of April 1; and this issue
(June) goes on sale June 1. Hereafter Weird Tales will go on sale each month on
the first day of the month it bears date of. There is no advantage, to either the maga¬
zine or the readers, in pre-dating a magazine of fiction.

From the new Asiatic state of Manchukuo comes a letter from Mrs. Dakotawin
E. Hayakawa of the Manchuria Medical University at Mukden: "Your magazine is
superb and I shall say at once and without a moment’s hesitation that your best writ¬
ers are Seabury Quinn and Otis Adelbert Kline. I have never enjoyed any story as
much as I am enjoying Buccaneers of Venus. Give us many more serials of this type.
I have never written to the Eyrie before, and I am only writing today because I feel
that I must add my few words of praise for Mr. Kline’s thoroughly fascinating
serial.”

From New Brighton, New Zealand, comes this letter from G. W. Hockley: "Just
a few lines to congratulate you on the continued high quality of the good old mag.
Even though adverse exchange rates, sales taxes and what not, make the price here
equivalent to 60 cents a copy, I manage to procure it somehow—it’s my one solace
in these times of depression. Congratulations on changing your reprint policy. No
more dreary drivel like Frankenstein, please! I was tickled to death to be able to read
The Night Wire and The Cats of Ulthar. Keep up the good work—only reprints
from back issues of Weird Tales. What has happened to H. P. Lovecraft? Surely
the master of the weird tale has not deserted your pages for keeps! His stories are
all the more appreciated, maybe, because of their scarcity, but don’t make us wait too
long. Robert E. Howard has excelled himself in The Scarlet Citadel. I have never
read a poor, or even medium, R. E. H. story yet; and this one certainly rang the bell.
Howard has that rare quality of transporting the reader completely away from this
mundane old earth and opening up imaginative vistas utterly strange and alien.”

"I am thrilled at the news of the Weird Tales broadcasts and send best wishes
for their magnificent success,” writes Frank Harrison Cunningham from Roanoke,

786

THE EYRIE

787

Virginia. “I hope some of the stories will be filmed. Karloff would have been a
wow in Howard’s Skull-face.”

Miss E. Myers, of Brooklyn, writes to the Eyrie: "For a good many years I
have been a very willing addict and devoted reader of Weird Tales. It is my
urgent plea to you not to publish any more so-called weird-scientific stories. Truly,
they are not weird, and consequently they have no place in your unique magazine.
Please print more stories of the kind that give us goose-flesh up and down our
spines, make us afraid of the dark and of going to bed. Make us wonder fearful¬
ly whether our next-door neighbor is not a vampire—after all his ears are long and
tapering and his teeth long and pointed, and his lips are unnaturally red. And
what are those strange sounds emanating from his room? Is he in the midst of
some dreadful Black Mass? Please heed this lengthy plea.”

Writes E. M. Barnett, of Plymouth, Massachusetts: "Not in many moons have
I read a story as unusual and gripping as Carl Jacobi’s masterpiece in the April
issue of Weird Tales: Revelations in Black. I am not an old-time reader of your
magazine, since only about a year ago was I fortunate enough to discover it on the
news stand. Since then I have bought the magazine regularly and enjoyed it tre¬
mendously. Now I must write to say how much I liked the story, Revelations in
Black. I hope there will be many more by Mr. Jacobi in the future.”

"Is this a private fight, or can an interested bystander take off his coat and get
in?” asks S. G. Gurwit, of Chicago. "I am referring to the differences of opinion
regarding interplanetary yarns. Otis A. Kline certainly knows how to write this type
of story and I am for having them. Everything out of the everyday routine of
ordinary life is weird—and these stories can be classed as weird. They certainly hold
the interest. When I start reading one, I forget this entire world we live in and
go adventuring. By all means, keep them in Weird Tales. As for Hamilton, I’ve
gotten many a thrill out of his stories. They’re pretty nearly perfect examples of
their kind. Robert E. Howard, too, is one of my favorites. What a smash he packs!
All told, I like Weird Tales as it is. It’s one of the magazines I really wait for
each month with a sense of anticipation, knowing I’m going to get something
different, new; something that will stir me up. Keep up the good work.”

From River Falls, Wisconsin, comes a letter from Edward Walden: "I have
never taken it upon myself to write to your reader’s department before, but the
April issue has without question more good stories in it than any month it has been
my privilege to read. Revelations in Black was all that you labeled it to be, an utter¬
ly strange story and very good.”

"Your April Weird Tales was undoubtedly the finest issue you have given
us in months,” writes B. M. Reynolds, of North Adams, Massachusetts. "I wish
especially to congratulate you on Golden Blood by Jack Williamson. This starts
out as the finest serial you have ever published. I have always considered A. Mer¬
ritt the greatest creator of fantastic stories, but if the remainder of Golden Blood
is on a par with the first part, I shall have to admit that Williamson is a close
second to Merritt. By all means keep him writing for you. Carl Jacobi found a new
and unique angle to vampire stories in his Revelations in Black. This story was
utterly different from the usual run of vampire stuff, and the finest of its kind I have
ever seen anywhere. Then there was Price’s Return of Balkis, which though not

788

WEIRD TALES

equal to his Girl from Samarcand, still rang the bell; and Bassett Morgan’s Tiger
Dust, his best since Bimini.”

Otto J. Precht, of Bellmore, Long Island, writes to the Eyrie: "Mr. Price’s
story, The Return of Balkis, merits a letter of commendation. The red-blooded
character, Nureddin, warms the heart. But I regret very much that Mr. Price had to
kill him. Why didn’t he let him live so that he could rob more caravans?”

Jack Poltec, of Denver, writes to the Eyrie: "How do you do it? Not satis¬
fied with publishing the only magazine of weird fiction that is interesting enough
to survive the depression which has killed off so many magazines, here you go and
land smack in the middle of the adventure magazine field with the Magic Carpet
Magazine, which lays it over every magazine of its kind in pep, fascination, and
power. Robert E. Howard’s historical tales in the Magic Carpet are the equal of
any stories ever published in the English language. Seabury Quinn’s series about
the swashbuckling vagabond-at-arms are even better than his de Grandin tales, and
Bedford-Jones’ stories are models of action and dash, with a thrill on every page.
Of your two magazines, Weird Tales and the Magic Carpet Magazine, I prefer
the latter. I regard it as the best fiction magazine on the stands today—and that’s
going some!”

By the time our next issue goes on sale, July 1, we hope to give you full details
regarding the Weird Tales broadcasts. In the next twelve months, radio dramatiza¬
tions of fifty-two stories from this magazine will be broadcast nationally, with your
favorite motion picture actors and actresses in the casts. Watch your local papers
for announcements of this thrilling series.

Readers, let us know what stories you like best in this issue of Weird Tales.
Carl Jacobi’s unusual vampire story, Revelations in Black, won first place in your
affections among all the stories in our April issue. A close second in popularity was
the first part of Jack Williamson’s strange novel, Golden Blood.

My favorite stories in the June WEIRD TALES are:

Story Remarks

( 1 )- -

( 2 )---

( 3 )-- -

I do not like the following stories:

( 1 )

( 2 ).

It will help us to know what kind of
stories you want in Weird Tales if you
will fill out this coupon and mail it to
The Eyrie, Weird Tales, 840 N. Michigan
Ave., Chicago, III.

Why?

By M. HUMPHREYS

S EPTEMBER 17, 1922.— I sat down
to breakfast this morning with a
good appetite. The heat seemed
over, and a cool wind blew in from my
garden, where chrysanthemums were al¬
ready budding. The sunshine streamed
into the room and fell pleasantly on Mrs.
O’Brien’s broad face as she brought in
the eggs and coffee. For a supposedly
lonely old bachelor the world seemed to
me a pretty good place. I was buttering
my third set of waffles when the house¬
keeper again appeared, this time with the
mail.

I glanced carelessly at the three or four
letters beside my plate. One of them bore
a strangely familiar handwriting. I gazed
at it a minute, then seized it with a beat¬
ing heart. Tears almost came into my
eyes. There was no doubt about it—it
was Arthur Barker’s handwriting! Shaky
and changed, to be sure, but ten years
have passed since I have seen Arthur, or,
rather, since his mysterious disappearance.

For ten years I have not had a word
from him. His people know no more
than I what has become of him, and long
ago we gave him up for dead. He van-

* From WEIRD TALES £cr May, 1923,

ished without leaving a trace behind him.
It seemed to me, too, that with him van¬
ished the last shreds of my youth. For
Arthur was my dearest friend in that
happy time. We were boon companions,
and many a mad prank we played to¬
gether.

And now, after ten years of silence,
Arthur was writing to me!

The envelope was postmarked Balti¬
more. Almost reluctantly—for I feared
what it might contain—I passed my fin¬
ger under the flap and opened it. It held
a single sheet of paper torn from a pad.
But it was Arthur’s writing:

"Dear Tom:

"Old man, can you run down to see
me for a few days? I’m afraid I’m in a
bad way.

"Arthur.”

Scrawled across the bottom was the
address, 536 N. Marathon Street.

I have often visited Baltimore, but I
can not recall a street of that name.

Of course I shall go. . . . But what a
strange letter after ten years! There is
something almost uncanny about it.

782

790

THE FLOOR ABOVE

I shall go tomorrow evening. I can
not possibly get off before then.

S eptember 18—I am leaving tonight.

Mrs. O’Brien has: packed my two
suitcases, and everything is in readiness
for my departure. Ten minutes ago I
handed her the keys and she went off
tearfully. She had been sniffling all day
and I have been perplexed, for a curious
thing occurred this morning.

It was about Arthur’s letter. Yesterday,
when I had finished reading it, I took it
to my desk and placed it in a small com¬
partment together with other personal
papers. I remember distinctly that it was
on top, with a lavender card from my
sister directly underneath. This morn¬
ing I went to get it. It was gone.

There was the lavender card exactly
where I had seen it, but Arthur’s letter
had completely disappeared. I turned
everything upside down, then called Mrs.
O’Brien and we both searched, but in
vain. Mrs. O’Brien, in spite of all I could
say, took it upon herself to feel that I
suspected her. . . . But what could have
become of it? Fortunately I remember
the address.

S eptember 19 —I have arrived. I
have seen Arthur. Even now he is
in the next room and I am supposed to
be preparing for bed. But something
tells me I shall not sleep a wink this
night. I am strangely wrought up, though
there is not the shadow of an excuse for
my excitement. I should be rejoicing to
have found my friend again. And
yet-

I reached Baltimore this morning at
eleven o’clock. The day was warm and
beautiful, and I loitered outside the sta¬
tion a few minutes before calling a taxi.
The driver seemed well acquainted with

the street I gave him, and we rolled off
across the bridge.

As I drew near my destination, I be¬
gan to feel anxious and afraid. But the
ride lasted longer than I expected—Mara¬
thon Street seemed to be located in the
suburbs of the city. At last we turned
into a dusty street, paved only in patches
and lined with linden and aspen trees.
The fallen leaves crunched beneath the
tires. The September sun beat down with
a white intensity. The taxi drew up be¬
fore a house in the middle of a block
that boasted not more than six dwellings.
On each side of the house was a vacant
lot, and it was set far back at the end of
aTong narrow yard crowded with trees.

I paid the driver, opened the gate and
went in. The trees were so thick that not
until I was half-way up the path did I
get a good view of the house. It was
three stories high, built of brick, in fairly
good repair, but lonely and deserted-look¬
ing. The blinds were dosed in all of the
windows with the exception of two, one
on the first, one on the second floor. Not
a sign of life anywhere, not a cat nor a
milk-bottle to break the monotony of the
leaves that carpeted the porch.

But, overcoming my feeling of un¬
easiness, I resolutely set my suitcases on
the porch, caught at the old-fashioned
bell, and gave an energetic jerk. A star¬
tling peal jangled through the silence. I
waited, but there was no answer.

After a minute I rang again. Then
from the interior I heard a queer dragging
sound, as if some one was coming slowly
down the hall. The knob was turned and
the door opened. I saw before me an old
woman, wrinkled, withered, and filmy-
eyed, who leaned on a crutch.

"Does Mr. Barker live here?” I asked.

She nodded, staring at me in a curious
way, but made no move to invite me in,

"Well, I’ve come to see him,” I said.

WEIRD TALES

791

"I’m a friend of his. He sent for me.”

At that she drew slightly aside.

"He’s upstairs,” she said in a cracked
voice that was little more than a whisper.
"I can’t show you up. Hain’t been up a
stair now in ten years.”

“That’s all right,” I replied, and, seiz¬
ing my suitcases, I strode down the long
hall.

"At the head of the steps,” came the
whispering voice behind me. "The door
at the end of the hall.”

I climbed the cold dark stairway,
passed along the short hall at the top,
and stood before a closed door. I knocked.

"Come in.” It was Arthur’s voice, and
yet—not his.

I opened the door and saw Arthur sit¬
ting on a couch, his shoulders hunched
over, his eyes raised to mine.

After all, ten years had not changed
him so much. As I remembered him,
he was of medium height, inclined to be
stout, and ruddy-faced, with keen gray
eyes. He was still stout, but had lost his
color and his eyes had dulled.

"And where have you been all this
time?” I demanded, when the first greet¬
ings were over.

"Here,” he answered.

"In this house?”

"Yes.”

"But why didn’t you let us hear from
you?”

He seemed to be making an effort to
speak.

"What did it matter? I didn’t suppose
any one cared.”

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I
could not get rid of the thought that
Arthur’s pale eyes, fixed tenaciously upon
my face, were trying to tell me something,
something quite different from what his
lips said.

I felt chilled. Although the blinds were

open, the room was almost darkened by
the branches of the trees that pressed
against the window. Arthur had not given
me his hand, had seemed troubled to
know how to make me welcome. Yet of
one thing I was certain: He needed me
and he wanted me to know he needed
me.

As I took a chair I glanced about the
room. It was a typical lodging-house
room, medium-sized, with flowered wall¬
paper, worn matting, nondescript rugs,
a wash-stand in one corner, a chiffonier
in another, a table in the center, two or
three chairs, and the couch which evi¬
dently served Arthur as a bed. But it
was cold, strangely cold for such a warm
day.

Arthur’s eyes had wandered uneasily
to my suitcases. He made an effort to
drag himself to his feet.

"Your room is back here,” he said,
with a motion of his thumb.

"No, wait,” I protested. "Let’s talk
about yourself first. What’s wrong?”

"I’ve been sick.”

"Haven’t you a doctor? If not, I’ll get
one.”

At this he started up with the first
sign of animation he had shown.

"No, Tom, don’t do it. Doctors can’t
help me now. Besides, I hate them. I’m
afraid of them.”

His voice trailed away, and I took pity
on his agitation. I decided to let the
question of doctors drop for the moment.

"As you say,” I assented carelessly.

Without more ado, I followed him
into my room, which adjoined his and
was furnished in much the same fashion.
But there were two windows, one on
each side, looking out on the vacant lots.
Consequently there was more light, for
which I was thankful. In a far corner I
noticed a door, heavily bolted.

"There’s one more room,” said Arthur,

792

THE FLOOR ABOVE

as I deposited my belongings, "one that
you’ll like. But we’ll have to go through
the bathroom.”

Groping our way through the musty
bathroom, in which a tiny jet of gas was
flickering, we stepped into a large, al¬
most luxurious chamber. It was a library,
well-furnished, carpeted, and surrounded
by shelves fairly bulging with books. But
for the chillness and bad light, it was
perfect. As I moved about, Arthur fol¬
lowed me with his eyes.

"There are some rare works on bot¬
any-”

I had already discovered them, a set
of books that I would have given much
to own. I could not contain my joy.

"You won’t be so bored browsing
around in here-”

In spite of my preoccupation, I pricked
up my ears. In that monotonous voice
there was no sympathy with my joy. It
was cold and tired.

When I had satisfied my curiosity we
returned to the front room, and Arthur
flung himself, or rather fell, upon the
couch. It was nearly five o’clock and quite
dark. As I lighted the gas, I heard a
sound below as of somebody thumping
on the wall.

"That’s the old woman,” Arthur ex¬
plained. "She cooks my meals, but she’s
too lame to bring them up.”

He made a feeble attempt at rising,
but I saw he was worn out.

"Don’t stir,” I warned him. "I’ll bring
up your food tonight.”

To my surprize, I found the dinner ap¬
petizing and well-cooked, and, in spite
of the fact that I did not like the looks
of the old woman, I ate with relish.
Arthur barely touched a few spoonfuls
of soup to his lips and absently crumbled
some bread in his plate.

Directly I had carried off the dishes,
he wrapped his reddish-brown dressing-
gown about him, stretched out at full

length on the couch, and asked me to turn
out the gas. When I had complied with
his request, I again heard his weak voice
asking if I had everything I needed.

"Everything,” I assured him, and then
there was unbroken silence.

I went to my room, finally, closed the
door, and here I am sitting restlessly be¬
tween the two back windows that look
out on the vacant lots.

I have unpacked my clothes and turned
down the bed, but I can not make up my
mind to retire. If the truth be told, I
hate to put out the light. . . . There is
something disturbing in the way the dry
leaves tap on the panes. And my heart
is sad when I think of Arthur.

I have found my old friend, but he is
no longer my old friend. Why does he
fix his pale eyes so strangely on my face?
What does he wish to tell me?

But these are morbid thoughts. I will
put them out of my head. I will go to
bed and get a good night’s rest. And
tomorrow I will wake up finding every¬
thing right and as it should be.

S eptember 26 —I have been here a
week today, and have settled down
to this queer existence as if I had never
known another. The day after my arrival
I discovered that the third volume of the
botanical series was done in Latin, which
I have set myself the task of translating.
It is absorbing work, and when I have
buried myself in one of the deep chairs
by the library table, the hours fly fast.

For health’s sake I force myself to walk
a few miles every day. I have tried to
prevail on Arthur to do likewise, but he,
who used to be so active, now refuses to
budge from the house. No wonder he is
literally blue! For it is a fact that his
complexion, and the shadows about his
eyes and temples, are decidedly blue.

What does he do with himself all day?
Whenever I enter his room, he is lying

WEIRD TALES

793

on the couch, a book beside him, which
he never reads. He does not seem to suf¬
fer pain, for he never complains. After
several ineffectual attempts to get med¬
ical aid for him, I have given up mention¬
ing the subject of a doctor. I feel that
his trouble is more mental than physical.

S EPTEMBER 28—A rainy day. It has
been coming down in floods since
dawn. And I got a queer turn this after¬
noon.

As I could not get out for my walk, I
spent the morning staging a general
house-cleaning. It was time! Dust and
dirt everywhere. The bathroom, which
has no window and is lighted by gas,
was fairly overrun with water-bugs and
roaches. Of course I did not penetrate
to Arthur’s room, but I heard no sound
from him as I swept and dusted.

I made a good dinner and settled down
in the library, feeling quite cozy. The
rain came down steadily and it had
grown so cold that I decided to make a
fire later on. But once I had gathered my
tablets and notebooks about me I forgot
the cold.

I remember I was on the subject of
the Aster trifolium, a rare variety seldom
found in this country. Turning a page,
I came upon a specimen of this very
variety, dried, pressed flat, and pasted
to the margin. Above it, in Arthur’s
handwriting, I read: September 21, 1912.

I was bending close to examine it,
when I felt a vague fear. It seemed to
me that some one was in the room and
was watching me. Yet I had not heard
the door open, nor seen any one enter.
I turned sharply and saw Arthur, wrapped
in his reddish-brown dressing-gown,
standing at my very elbow.

He was smiling—smiling for the first
time since my arrival, and his dull eyes
were bright. But I did not like that smile.
(Please turn to page 794)

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[794

WEIRD TALES

(Continued from preceding page)

In spite of myself I jerked away from
him. He pointed at the aster.

"It grew in the front yard under a
linden tree. I found it yesterday.”

"Yesterday!” I shouted, my nerves on
edge. "Good Lord, man! Look! It was
ten years ago!”

The smile faded from his face.

"Ten years ago,” he repeated thickly.
"Ten years ago?”

And with his hand pressed against
his forehead, he went out of the room
still muttering, "Ten years ago!”

As for me, this foolish incident has
preyed upon my mind and kept me from
doing any satisfactory work. . . . Septem¬
ber 27. ... It is true, that was also yes¬
terday—ten years ago.

O ctober 1 — One o'clock. A cheer¬
ful morning this has been, the sun
shining brightly, and a touch of frost in
the air. I put in an excellent day's work
in the library yesterday, and on the first
mail this morning came a letter from
Mrs. O’Brien. She says the scarab chrys¬
anthemums are in full bloom. I must
positively run up for a day before they
are gone.

As I lighted a cigar after breakfast, I
happened to glance over at Arthur and
was struck by a change in him. For he
has changed. I ask myself if my pres¬
ence has not done him good. On my
arrival he seemed without energy, almost
torpid, but now he is becoming restless.
He wanders about the room continually
and sometimes shows a disposition to talk.

Yes, I am sure he is better. I am going
for my walk now, and I feel convinced
that in a week’s time I shall have him
accompanying me.

F ive o’clock. Dusk is falling. O God!

What has come over me? Am I the
same man that went out of this house

three hours ago? And what has hap¬
pened? . . .

I had a splendid walk, and was strid¬
ing homeward in a fine glow. But as I
turned the corner and came in sight of
the house, it was as if I looked at death
itself. I could hardly drag myself up the
stairs, and when I peered into the shadowy
chamber, and saw the man hunched up
on the couch, with his eyes fixed intently
on my face, I could have screamed like a
woman. I wanted to fly, to rush out into
the clear cold air and run—to run and
never come back! But I controlled my¬
self, forced my feet to carry me to my
room.

There is a weight of hopelessness at
my heart. The darkness is advancing,
swallowing up everything, but I have
not the will to light the gas. . . .

Now there is a flicker in the front
room. I am a fool; I must pull myself
together. Arthur is lighting up, and
downstairs I can hear the thumping that
announces dinner. . . .

It is a queer thought that comes to me
now, but it is odd I have not noticed it
before. We are about to sit down to our
evening meal. Arthur will eat practically
nothing, for he has no appetite. Yet he
remains stout. It can not be healthy fat,
but even at that it seems to me that a man
who eats as little as he does would be¬
come a living skeleton.

O ctober 5—Positively, I must see a
doctor about myself, or soon I shall
be a nervous wreck. I am acting like a
child. Last night I lost all control and
played the coward.

I had gone to bed early, tired out from
a hard day’s woik. It was raining again,
and as I lay in bed I watched the little
rivulets trickling down the panes. Lulled
by the sighing of the wind among the
leaves, I fell asleep.

(Please turn to page 796)

Coming Next Month

E VEN as he spoke, the fire-beasts, with deep, bellowing roars that reverberated loudly,
were charging through the flames toward the two heat-armored humans!

Jerry had no time to think, but acted instinctively. One of the fire-beasts wa;
in advance of the rest, and Jerry brought up his long pointed steel staff and held it level unti i
the monster’s glassy eyes and gaping jaws were directly before him. Then he thrust the
steel fiercely between the creature’s jaws.

The steel staff drove through its open mouth into its body. The thing fell and thrashe !
wildly in the fires, while Jerry jerked his weapon out of it. As he faced the other charging
fire-beasts the thought hammered in his brain that even though they were impervious to
fire these creatures were not unkillable.

He thrust at the nearest of the onrushing fire-beasts, and as it fell too, the other crea¬
tures drew back, bellowing in rage. Jerry, eyeing them tensely with Helen still behind him,
hoped that they would give over the attack, but they came on again. He felt his steel tear
into another of the things, but this fire-beast was only wounded, and as it shied away with
a terrific bellow, it tore the steel from Jerry’s grasp.

The other fire-beasts were upon him and Helen—he heard the girl scream behind him
—when they stopped and turned.

Two of the beasts had suddenly fallen in mid-charge. And now Jerry and Helen saw
beyond them other and different black shapes approaching through the fires.

The newcomers were a dozen or more dark, man-like shapes! They did not wear heat-
armor, yet did not seem more affected by the terrible fires than the fire-beasts. Like the
fire-beasts, their bodies seemed of dark, stony flesh impervious to heat and flame. They
were of human height and had human features, but their eyes were covered by a glassy pro¬
tective film. They were clad in red harnesses of woven mineral-fibers and carried gun-like
weapons of metal, which they were aiming at the fire-beasts.

As another fire-beast fell beneath the gun-weapon of these newly arrived fire-men, the
other monsters lumbered off in flight.

Jerry and Helen stared at the human-shaped fire-men. Jerry had recovered his steel staff.
"Fire people!” Jerry Holt exclaimed. "People able to walk and live in these fires with¬
out armor or protection! Men and beasts living and fighting down in these fiery spaces
of the volcano. Helen, it’s-”

This breath-taking story by the author of Crashing Suns tells of a strange descent into
the active crater of Mauna Loa, and thrilling adventures among weird beings in the heart
of the volcano. It will be printed complete in next month’s Weird Tales:

THE FIRE CREATURES

By EDMOND HAMILTON

—ALSO—

THE DREAMS IN THE WITCH-HOUSE

By H. P. Lovecraft

A story of mathematics, witchcraft and Wal-
purgis Night, in which the horror creeps and
grows—a new tale by the author of "The Rats
in the Walls,”

THE HORROR IN THE MUSEUM
By Hazel Heald

A shuddery tale of the elder gods, and the
blasphemous monstrosity that slithered through
the corridors of the waxworks museum.

THE HAND OF GLORY

By Seabury Quinn

A stirring tale about an Orientalist who was
willing to sacrifice his own daughter to gain oc¬
cult power—a story of the little French scien¬
tist, Jules de Grandin.

THE THING FROM THE GRAVE
By Harold Ward

A goose-flesh story of the hideous fate that
befell a judge who had sentenced a murderer
to death.

July WEIRD TALES Out July 1

795

79 6

WEIRD TALES

(Continued from page 794)

I awoke (how long afterward I can
not say) to feel a cold hand laid on my
arm. For a moment I lay paralyzed with
terror. I would have cried aloud, but I
had no voice. At last I managed to sit
up, to shake the hand off. I reached for
the matches and lighted the gas.

It was Arthur who stood by my bed—
Arthur wrapped in his eternal reddish-
brown dressing-gown. He was excited.
His blue face had a yellow tinge, and
his eyes gleamed in the light.

"Listen!” he whispered.

I listened but I heard nothing.

"Don’t you hear it?” he gasped, and
he pointed upward.

"Upstairs?” I stammered. "Is there
somebody upstairs?”

I strained my ears, and at last I fan¬
cied I could hear a fugitive sound like
the light tapping of footsteps.

"It must be somebody walking about
up there,” I suggested.

But at these words Arthur seemed to
stiffen. The excitement died out of his
face.

"No!” he cried in a sharp rasping voice.
"No! It is nobody walking about up
there!”

And he fled into his room.

For a long time I lay trembling, afraid
to move. But at last, fearing for Arthur,
I got up and crept to his door. He was
lying on the couch, with his face in the
moonlight, apparently asleep.

O ctober 6—I had a talk with Arthur
today. Yesterday I could not bring
myself to speak of the previous night’s
happening, but all of this nonsense must
be cleared away.

We were in the library. A fire was
burning in the grate, and Arthur had his
feet on the fender. The slippers he wears
are as objectionable to me as his dressing-
gown. They are felt slippers, old and

worn, and frayed around the edges as if
they had been gnawed by rats. I can not
imagine why he does not get a new pair.

"Say, old man,” I began abruptly, "do
you own this house?”

He nodded.

"Don’t you rent any of it?”

"Downstairs—to Mrs. Harlan.”

"But upstairs?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

"No, it’s inconvenient. There’s only
a peculiar way to get upstairs.”

I was struck by this.

"By Jove! you’re right. Where’s the
staircase?”

He looked me full in the eyes.

"Don’t you remember seeing a bolted
door in a comer of your room? The stair¬
case runs from that door.”

I did remember it, and somehow the
memory made me uncomfortable. I said
no more and decided not to refer to what
had happened that night. It occurred to
me that Arthur might have been walking
in his sleep.

O ctober 8 —When I went for my
walk on Tuesday I dropped in and
saw Doctor Lorraine, who is an old friend.
He expressed some surprize at my run¬
down condition and wrote me a prescrip¬
tion.

I am planning to go home next week.
How pleasant it will be to walk in my
garden and listen to Mrs. O’Brien singing
in the kitchen!

O ctober 9—Perhaps I had better
postpone my trip. I casually men¬
tioned it to Arthur this morning.

He was lying relaxed on the sofa, but
when I spoke of leaving he sat up as
straight as a bolt. His eyes fairly blazed.

"No, Tom, don’t go!” There was ter¬
ror in his voice, and such pleading that it
wrung mv heart.

WEIRD TALES

797

"You’ve stood it alone here ten years,”

I protested. "And now-”

"It’s not that,” he said. "But if you
go, you will never come back.”

"Is that all the faith you have in me?”
"I’ve got faith, Tom. But if you go,
you’ll never come back.”

I decided that I must humor the vaga¬
ries of a sick man.

"All right,” I agreed. "I’ll not go.
Anyway, not for some time.”

O ctober 12 —What is it that hangs
over this house like a cloud? For
I can no longer deny that there is some¬
thing—something indescribably oppres¬
sive. It seems to pervade the whole
neighborhood.

Are all the houses on this block va¬
cant? If not, why do I never see children
playing in the street? Why are passers-by
so rare? And why, when from the front
window I do catch a glimpse of one, is
he hastening away as fast as possible?

I am feeling blue again. I know that
I need a change, and this morning I told
Arthur definitely that I was going.

To my surprize, he made no objection.
In fact, he murmured a word of assent
and smiled. He smiled as he smiled in
the library that morning when he pointed
at the Aster trifolium. And I don’t like
that smile. Anyway, it is settled. I shall
go next week, Thursday, the 19th.

O ctober 13—I had a strange dream
last night. Or was it a dream? It
was so vivid. . . . All day long I have
been seeing it over and over again.

In my dream I thought that I was lying
there in my bed. The moon was shining
brightly into the room, so that each piece
of furniture stood out distinctly. The
bureau is so placed that when I am lying
(Please turn to page 798)

THE PRINCE OF PERIL

By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE
(Limited Autographed First Edition)

Price $2.00

WEIRD TALES BOOK DEPARTMENT,

Don't Miss ...

The

Lion of Tiberias

By ROBERT E. HOWARD

The author of "Black Colossus” in this
issue, pilots the Magic Carpet back to the
stirring days of the Crusades, when Zen-
ghi, Lord of Mosul and precursor of
Saladin, rode up the glittering stairs of
empire to his doom. You will be thrilled
with the sweep of Mr. Howard’s style
in this story, for he has caught all die
glamor and flavor of a colorful age.

798

WEIRD TALES

(Continued from preceding page)
on my back, with my head high on the
pillow, I can see full into the mirror.

I thought I was lying in this manner
and staring into the mirror. In this way
I saw the bolted door in the far corner
of the room. I tried to keep my mind off
it, to think of something else, but it drew
my eyes like a magnet.

It seemed to me that some one was in
the room, a vague figure that I could not
recognize. It approached the door and
caught at the bolts. It dragged at them
and struggled, but in vain—they would
not give way.

Then it turned and showed me its
agonized face. It was Arthur! I recog¬
nized his reddish-brown dressing-gown.

I sat up in bed and cried to him, but
he was gone. I ran to his room, and
there he was, stretched out in the moon¬
light asleep. It must have been a dream.

O ctober 15—We are having Indian
Summer weather now—almost op¬
pressively warm. I have been wandering
about all day, unable to settle down to
anything. This morning I felt so lone¬
some that when I took the breakfast
dishes down, I tried to strike up a conver¬
sation with Mrs. Harlan.

Hitherto I have found her as solemn
and uncommunicative as the Sphinx, but
as she took the tray from my hands, her
wrinkles broke into the semblance of a
smile. Positively at that moment it seemed
to me that she resembled Arthur. Was
it her smile, or the expression of her eyes?
Has she, also, something to tell me?

"Don’t you get lonesome here?” I
asked her sympathetically.

She shook her head. "No, sir. I’m used
to it now. I couldn’t stand it anywhere
else.”

"And do you expect to go on living
here the rest of your life?”

"That may not be very long, sir,” she
said, and smiled again.

Her words were simple enough, but
the way she looked at me when she ut¬
tered them seemed to give them a double
meaning. She hobbled away, and I went
upstairs and wrote Mrs. O’Brien to ex¬
pect me early on the morning of the 19th.

O ctober 18—Ten a. m.—Am catch¬
ing the twelve o’clock train tonight.
Thank God, I had the resolution to get
away! I believe another week of this life
would drive me mad. And perhaps
Arthur is right—perhaps I shall never
come back.

I ask myself if I have become such a
weakling as that, to desert him when he
needs me most. I don’t know. I don t
recognize myself any longer. . . .

But of course I will be back. There is
the translation, for one thing, which is
coming along famously. I could never
forgive myself for dropping it at the most
vital point.

As for Arthur, when I return I intend
to give in to him no longer. I will make
myself master here and cure him against
his will. Fresh air, change of scene, a
good doctor, these are the things he needs.

But what is his malady? Is it the in¬
fluence of this house that has fallen on
him like a blight? One might imagine
so, since it is having the same effect on
me.

Yes, I have reached that point where I
no longer sleep. At night I lie awake
and try to keep my eyes off the mirror
across the room. But in the end I always
find myself staring into it—watching the
door with the heavy bolts. I long to rise
from the bed and draw back the bolts,
but I’m afraid.

How slowly the day goes by! The
night will never come!

WEIRD TALES

799

N ine p. m. —Have packed my suit¬
cases and put the room in order.
Arthur must be asleep. . . . I’m afraid
the parting from him will be painful. I
shall leave here at eleven o’clock in order
to give myself plenty of time. ... It is
beginning to rain. . . .

O ctober 19—At last! It has come!

I am mad! I knew it! I felt it
creeping on me all the time! Have I not
lived in this house a month? Have I not
seen? ... To have seen what I have
seen, to have lived for a month as I have
lived, one must be mad. . . .

It was ten o’clock. I was waiting im¬
patiently for the last hour to pass. I had
seated myself in a rocking-chair by the
bed, my suitcases beside me, my back to
the mirror. The rain no longer fell. I
must have dozed off.

But all at once I was wide awake, my
heart beating furiously. Something had
touched me. I leapt to my feet, and, as
I turned sharply, my eyes fell upon the
mirror. In it I saw the door just as I had
seen it the other night, and the figure
fumbling with the bolt. I wheeled around,
but there was nothing there.

I told myself that I was dreaming
again, that Arthur was asleep in his bed.
But I trembled as I opened the door of
his room and peered in. The room was
empty, the bed not even crumpled. Light¬
ing a match, I groped my way through
the bathroom into the library.

The moon had come from under a
cloud and was pouring in a silvery flood
through the windows, but Arthur was
not there. I stumbled back into my room.

The moon was there, too. .. . And the
door, the door in the corner was half
open. The bolt had been drawn. In the
darkness I could just make out a flight
of steps that wound upward.

/Please turn to page 800)

KNOWLEDGE

OFTHE

^Vhat strahgepowers,
did the ancients possess?
Where was the source of
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V miracles? Were these profound
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libraries or are they burled be-
w -neath crumbling Temple walls?'
J Those wise men of the past.
J knew the mysteries of life and 1
| personal power. This wisdom i
I riot lost,—it is withheld from th„

I mass. It is offered TO YOU IfJ."

I with an open mind, you wish to,;' ,

I step out of the rut of monoto- ,< j -
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NEXT MONTH

The

Hand of Glory

By SEABURY QUINN

A stirring tale about an Orientalist
v/ho was willing to sacrifice his
own daughter to gain occult power. A
story of the ingenious little French
scientist-detective, Jules de Grandin, in
a spectacular exploit.

T F you have not made the acquaint-
ance of this most unusual detective
in all fiction, you can not afford to miss
reading this fascinating tale—a tale of
weird rites in an old church, through
which, like a cold wind from the tomb,
blows a breath of shuddery horror. It
will be printed complete

in the July issue of

WEIRD TALES

On sale July 1st

To avoid mining your copy, clip and mail this
coupon today for SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION
OFFER.

(Continued from preceding page)

I could no longer hesitate. Striking
another match, I climbed the back stair¬
way.

When I reached the top I found myself
in total darkness, for the blinds were
tightly closed. Realizing that the room
was probably a duplicate of the one be¬
low, I felt along the wall until I came to
the gas jet. For a moment the flame flick¬
ered, then burned bright and clear.

O God! what was it I saw? A table,
thick with dust, and something wrapped
in a reddish-brown dressing-gown, that
sat with its elbows propped upon it.

How long had it been sitting there,
that it had grown more dry than the dust
upon the table! For how many thousands
of days and nights had the flesh rotted
from that grinning skull!

In its bony fingers it still clutched a
pencil. In front of it lay a sheet of
scratched paper, yellow with age. With
trembling fingers I brushed away the dust.
It was dated October 19, 1912. It read:

"Dear Tom:

"Old man, can you run down to see
me for a few days? I’m afraid I’m in a
bad way - ”

COMING SOON

A stupenduous novel of vampirism
that will make your blood run cold:

THE VAMPIRE-MASTER
By Hugh Davidson

Watch for this powerful and gripping
story in WEIRD TALES. You can
not afford to miss it.

W. T.—8

Pearls
From
Macao

By

H. BEDFORD-JONES

C LEGHORN turned into the passage, passed the door of the girl’s cabin, shoved open his own
door, and reached for the light. His figure was illuminated by the light in the passage; the cabin
was pitch-black. As he put out his arm, something moved before him. Every sense alert, he
ducked, and swerved quickly to one side.

A furious blow glanced from his head—had he not ducked, it would have brained him. Half
stunned, he hurled himself to one side, and collided full with an unseen figure. His hands shot out.
A grim and furious satisfaction seized Cleghorn as his fingers sank into the throat of a man, sank in
with a terrible grip.

Another smash over the head, and another.

Blinded, he sank in his fingers the deeper. The two struggling figures hit against the door, and
it slammed shut. Now there was perfect darkness. In his ears, Cleghorn heard the hoarse, frenzied pant¬
ing of a man, felt the smashing blows of the other’s fists and of some blunt weapon. He had not the
slightest idea who it could be, and cared not. This fellow had been waiting here to get him, and had
come within an ace of it.

That man, gripped about the throat by those fingers of iron, gasped terribly, struggled with blind
and frantic desperation to loose the grip, and could not. His strength began to fail. Again Cleghorn
caught a terrific smash over the head, and this fourth blow all but knocked him out.

He lost balance, but did not lose his grip. He dragged down the jyther with him; they fell
heavily, rolled against the closed door, and lay there sprawling. Flashes of fire beat before Cleg-
horn’s eyes. He tried to rise, and could not. He felt his senses slipping away. With an effort, he
held himself motionless, let all his strength, all his will-power, flow into his hard-gripped fingers.
Eyen when everything went black before him, there was no slackening of his frightful hold. . . .
Don’t miss this vivid thrill-tale of a desperate voyage on the China sea, with murder striking
from the shadows again and again, and a beautiful girl on board—all bound for a coral reef off the
Manchurian coast, where a treasure-ship lay wrecked. This stirring novelette is published complete in
the current issue of the Magic Carpet Magazine.—Adv.